London, England

February 1820

Much had changed for Marce Davenport in recent years. As she paced the warm, soothing office that had once been her mother’s treasured sanctuary at Craven House, she listened for approaching footsteps, shrieks of laughter, or even the angry shouts of her bickering siblings. However, nothing could be heard.

The house was shrouded in utter silence, something Marce had never thought possible.

No door slammed on its hinges above stairs.

The constant clang from the kitchen was no more.

Even the endless pounding up and down the steps had ceased.

For the first time in all her life, Marce was unequivocally alone.

The deep feeling went far beyond the physical to a daunting mental solitude that threatened to drag her down. The silence echoed inside her, filling her with more of the aching emptiness that had slowly overtaken her as the years passed. She was an outsider within her own home—a woman whose lies had distanced her from everyone she loved.

The most damning part was that Marce’s siblings had become so accustomed to her aloof nature they didn’t realize the secrets she held inside. They saw her quiet reserve as simply her way, not as the sad loneliness it was. They mistook her domineering fortitude regarding family matters as her way of controlling them. However, they didn’t notice her grasp on the strings gradually slipping away as the years came and went.

If her siblings heard her sobs in the dark of night, they did not ask what haunted her.

It was her burden to bear—alone.

She glanced at the missive on her desk; the familiar, heavy-handed script summoning her and instructing her to be ready for departure at precisely noon and not a moment after. The carriage would arrive with no one but a driver to escort her the two hours to the Whisper Hook Inn on the outskirts of Welling in Kent.

The same as it had for nearly eight years.

Eight long, lonely, solitary years.

At least in that regard, there was comfort in routine.

With four siblings underfoot, and a household brimming with other guests, lonely should be the last emotion Marce felt. Alas, her burdens were not something she spoke of with anyone, especially her family. It was her obligation to care for Judith, Samantha, Payton, and to a certain extent, Garrett, her brother. And that was what she’d done during the many years since their mother’s passing—without complaint, hesitation, or remorse. Never had they need worry over finances. Never had they gone hungry or spent a cold night without a fire in the hearth.

Marce had done all she could to see to their education and proper upbringing.

Finally, it was Marce’s turn to find happiness.

Or risk going mad.

With Jude and Sam properly wed, and Payton, her youngest sibling, having recently taken a position as a governess, Marce was free to explore her own options for the future. Perhaps complete happiness would always elude her, but contentment would suffice. At twenty-eight summers, Marce would be firmly classified as on the shelf by society. Thankfully, she had no aspirations to be part of the beau monde of London, a group that had shunned her mother and turned their backs on Sasha’s orphaned children.

No, a cottage on the cliffs of Dover or a modest house in the wilds of Cornwall were much preferred to the hustle and bustle of town life—as long as room allowed for the many women who sought Marce’s help in improving their lots in life.

She moved around the desk her mother had favored. The private office was atrocious and overwhelming, even to Marce, with its gold and red décor—Sasha Davenport’s favorite hues. As an ode to her mother, Marce had never altered the room, keeping it as it was before Sasha’s death. Originally, the space had been a comfort to her and her siblings. A place where they found solace and truly felt the presence of their mother, though she was long departed from this world. But in recent years, it had become Marce’s personal prison, filled with deception and the secrets she kept hidden from her family.

All manner of things she was ashamed to be a part of—so much so, she’d never gained enough courage to speak of it to anyone.

Yet, she’d spent years with no other choice. Her family came first, even before her own needs and wants.

The tall clock in the foyer chimed. Twelve times. Its familiar gong echoed through the empty house—one still bouncing off the walls and shuddering down the corridors as another began. Peculiar that only a few short months before, Craven House had been filled with such boisterous noise the peal would have gone all but unnoticed in the midday commotion.

Glancing at the small trunk packed with the requisite necessities for a weeklong trip, Marce waited once more. For the sound of anything besides the gong of the clock and the quick, erratic thump of her pulse.

Nothing.

Silence.

Empty—except for the remorse that filled her and the lies that surrounded her.

She sighed.

Odd that she longed for the time when her siblings would rush into the room and question her about where she was off to, where she planned to spend her time away from Craven House. Was she relaxing in the rejuvenating waters in Bath? Or perhaps she found peace and quiet in Brighton, along with a turn about their fashionable shopping area? Would she please bring them back sweet treats? They would laugh and jest about how Marce spent her time away. She’d even heard envious whispers shared between the twins, Jude and Sam, regarding her frequent jaunts outside of London. And in turn, Marce would tell them, in her stern, motherly tone, to mind their own business and keep their noses from the gossips.

Where Marce went and what task she was entangled in was far darker than any of her siblings suspected—and something Marce was loath to speak of.

The deal made with the Devil himself nearly eight years prior was her own personal secret…and the prison that kept her trapped.

Rowan Delconti, the Duke of Harwich, was certainly close to the beast who ruled Hades with his midnight-black hair, intense green stare, and massive frame—not to touch on his arrogant demeanor and lofty opinion of himself. If she so much as dared open a book about the master of the Underworld, there was little doubt the drawings of the creature would resemble the duke in every way. She remembered the way he’d appeared that first time; how he’d strode into her office, all arrogance and confidence, and demanded his due. Had they met under any other circumstances, Marce would have found his forceful demeanor thrilling and refreshing.

As if on cue, the chimes quieted, and a knock sounded on the front door of Craven House.

The duke’s carriage had arrived to collect her.

Darla, one of only two servants employed at Craven House, hurried from somewhere deep in the house to greet their guest.

Quickly, Marce moved to the cabinet behind her desk and retrieved the small box that held a stash of money in case anything unexpected happened during her time away from London. It was always best to be prepared, as opposed to being caught off guard as she’d once been. With the box securely under her arm, she scribbled a hasty note for Garrett and Payton in case either came home while she was away. Jude and Sam, both newly wed, were traveling with their husbands—Jude to Canterbury to visit the young Lady Theodora at her boarding school, and Sam away from England entirely. Lastly, she placed the duke’s summons in the side drawer and used the long key around her neck to lock her desk in case anyone thought it wise to snoop about in her private correspondence.

Marce longed for the day she no longer had to think of every minute detail—in case—for fear she’d be discovered.

Part of her wished to leave the key on her desk and hope someone discovered her secrets…only then would the trappings fall away, shedding light upon her deceptions.

Instead, she left the note addressed to her siblings face-up on the desk and grabbed her traveling trunk, slipping the box with her money inside before halting once more.

The house, especially this room, had given her solace for most of her life. This was the only place she’d ever felt safe calling home. The rooms and halls were filled with memories—Jude’s first steps as a babe, Garrett’s horrible years attempting to master the flute, Sam’s many years of teasing Payton for her sullen behavior, and Marce overseeing it all.

This was their home. It had taken years for Marce to adjust to life at Craven House—and truly come to think of the residence as a home—especially after everything she’d known was stripped from her when her father died.

No longer was Craven House a temporary place where her family resided.

But now, it was all to be gone—stripped from her—very soon. Yet, in a way, it was long overdue.

While sad, Marce could not muster the expected sense of loss at knowing that everything she prided herself on possessing would shortly be in another’s hands.

Less competent hands, unfortunately.

One source of regret over her duplicitous life coming to an end was present. Her family. This was their home, too. Sam, Jude, and Payton had been born within the walls of Craven House and had known no other home.

The time would come when they learned of Craven House’s fate.

And what of the women she helped in London? Travel accommodations would need to be secured, as well as a house large enough to serve as a refuge. Marce could not—would not—abandon them, no matter the hardship it caused. Her family had lived many years helping those less fortunate, and Marce would not end that now, no matter the appealing lure of absolute freedom.

A light knock sounded on the door, and Darla opened it enough to peek her head in. “A carriage be here ta fetch ye, Madame.”

“Thank you, Darla.” Marce smiled to cover her cringe. Madame. It was only fitting that the proprietress of a brothel be addressed as such, even if it had been many, many years since Craven House housed such scandalous activities.

Nonetheless, she was known as Madame Marce—and her mother before her, Madame Sasha. The ton had a long, detailed memory.

Perhaps she could outrun her reputation if she traveled far enough. Would Cornwall do, or would she need journey as far as the distant corner of Scotland—or perhaps across the Channel—to find a reprieve from her family’s past?

Marce would dwell on the matter later. For now, she had a carriage waiting to take her to Kent.

When she focused on the door once more, Darla had disappeared, slipping as soundlessly away as she’d arrived.

Marce adjusted her hold on her traveling trunk and walked toward the foyer, careful to keep her pace unhurried to hide the mounting dread that increased with each step.

It was not every day a woman told a duke to go to hell—consequences be damned.

With her head held high, Marce departed Craven House with only a slim hope she’d be allowed to return.

“Your carriage,” the driver called, pulling the coach door wide for her.

With this servant, and the several that had come before him, she was never Madame Marce, nor even so much as Miss Davenport. He only held the door for her to enter at Craven House and exit the carriage at the Whisper Hook Inn.

She was simply a chore that could be assigned to any random servant. Collect and deposit her as if she were naught but a bag of sugar needed for afternoon tea, or a gown needing collection from the laundress.

Perhaps she, at some point, had acquiesced to her role as such and began to think of herself in the manner in which the duke treated her—as something of little import.

The time had come for that to change.

She may have shed the trappings of her noble birth long ago and nearly forgotten her status as the eldest daughter of Lord Buckston, a marquess; however, she had not fallen so far that she believed herself as insignificant as a bushel of sugar.

“Sir.” Marce halted before stepping up into the waiting conveyance, making certain to keep her tone level. This was not the man her years of pent-up frustration should be aimed at.

He was but a messenger.

“Yes?” He cleared his throat, keeping his stare trained on her feet.

“I need to make a stop before departing London.” She pinned the driver with a hard stare even though he’d yet to lift his gaze to hers. Would he deny her request? Would he load her into the carriage and ignore her demand?

“His Grace will not be pleased if we are tardy,” he mumbled, his eyes finally meeting hers.

“It is a gift—for the duchess.” It was Marce’s turn to avoid his gaze as she admitted the truth of the matter. She was in no way seeking to delay or displease the duke, only curry favor with the duchess. “I must pick it up from the bookseller on Piccadilly.”

“Certainly.” He nodded, his stare focusing on her feet once more.

Without another word, Marce handed her trunk to the driver to stow in the boot and entered the carriage.

As they pulled out of the Craven House drive, Marce stopped herself from glancing out the window and watching her home disappear in her wake. Neither would she waste precious time dwelling on the looming task awaiting her once she arrived at the Whisper Hook Inn. Her decision had been made—and Marce would allow nothing to alter her course.