Chapter One
London, November 1875
A bottle of Highland whisky was supposed to make a man forget his regrets. Hayden Milton, the Earl of Westfield, blew out a heavy breath. As usual, he’d managed little more than to undermine his equilibrium. Carefully he set one foot before the other as he lumbered through the fog and darkness shrouding Brook Street.
He peered at the heavens above. “Can you forgive me, Laura?”
Too late to ask his wife for forgiveness. Five years too late. The dead could not offer absolution.
Shaking away his maudlin thoughts, he made his way to the front door of his town house. His hand hovered over the handle as he eyed a drooping potted holly on the top step.
Where the blazes did that come from? He stepped back and looked up at the hazy structure. One, two, three, four...
This was not his residence—unless someone had removed the fifth floor during his absence. Was that possible? The inane question brought about the realization he must be more inebriated than he thought. He stared at the nearly identical town house next door. One, two, three, four, five. He glanced at the step. There was no holly, sickly looking or otherwise.
He took another step back.
Blast it! Lady Bedford’s residence. The old battle-ax would expire from a seizure if he crawled into her bed naked. A vision of himself snuggling between the sheets with the wart-faced matron flashed before his eyes. He shuddered.
In front of his own town house, he set a steadying hand on the wrought iron fence. Thank God Celia would be asleep. He didn’t wish the child to witness him listing like a ship on the high seas.
Footfalls shattered the silence of the small hours.
He turned as a diminutive woman burst through the gloom. She stopped directly in front of him, her face tipped downward. One pale hand clutched the hood of her black cape, anchoring it to her head. The woman lifted her face and a pair of slanted green eyes peered at him.
Adele.
At one time, her catlike eyes had intrigued him, but their affair had been brief. She teetered somewhere between senseless folly and complete madness. Too volatile—even for him.
She raised her arm and moonlight glinted off the dueling pistol clasped in her hand.
Ah, so my day of reckoning is upon me? “Adele, my dear, has it come to this? Murder?”
A feral smile curled her lips. “Oh, Hayden, I don’t intend to kill you.”
Though she spoke slowly, her words were slurred. Apparently, he was not the only one who’d numbed his mental capacities with liquor, or in Adele’s case, a tincture containing opiates, a habit she favored.
Grinning, she lowered the gun. Its barrel, previously pointed at his chest, now aimed at his manhood. She let out a low, bitter cackle. “No, dearest, I merely wish to maim you.”
Only a woman would think of gelding him; a man would aim right for his black heart.
Adele arched a brow.
Did she expect a reaction? Had she thought he’d fall to his knees and plead for his life? Not likely. At least not on the anniversary of his wife’s death. His own demise seemed a fitting turn of events.
“You bastard, say something,” she hissed.
Go ahead, do it, the words echoed in his mind, teasing the tip of his tongue. Was he as mad as Adele or had the liquor pickled his brain?
He glanced at Celia’s bedchamber window. For the child’s sake, he needed to keep his wits about him. He’d stood over his wife’s grave and promised to do his best for the child. He wouldn’t fail Laura. Not again.
His gaze returned to the antiquated pistol. The ornate gun probably weighed close to five pounds. Adele’s hand already trembled from the effort to hold it still. He’d a better chance of surviving if she kept the barrel pointed low—away from his chest and abdomen.
“Sweeting, why don’t you give me the gun and accompany me inside? We’ll sit and chat about what I’ve done that has you so distressed.” He inched closer.
She stepped back. Her wide-eyed expression looked deranged. She waved the gun. “Stay back, Hayden. I swear I’ll shoot.”
He raised his hands, palms out, as a movement beyond her shoulder caught his attention. A short figure walked toward them. The person appeared distorted, a body too narrow in comparison to its upper girth. The figure stepped under the illuminating light of a lamppost.
Damnation. Young Jimmy McGivney.
The newsboy carried a bundle of the morning paper hefted on his narrow shoulders. At any moment, Adele would hear Jimmy’s footsteps scraping the pavement behind her. He couldn’t risk the unstable woman turning on the lad and shooting.
He leapt forward to grapple the gun away from her.
Flint struck steel. The flash of powder igniting dispersed the darkness. A deafening sound reverberated through his entire being and the scent of sulfur filled his nose. As if someone kicked his legs out from beneath him, he fell forward and slammed against the pavement. His breath exploded from his lungs.
The cold, damp ground permeated his upper body, contrasting with the heat burning through his lower half, burrowing into the core of his marrow. The warmth waned. Seeped out of him until it pooled on the pavement below him, leaving an astringent, knifelike pain in its wake.
His eyes drifted closed, and Laura’s lovely face flashed before his mind’s eye. Forgive me, my love.
Adele’s retreating footsteps clicking against the pavement drew his mind back to the present. He forced his heavy lids open. A bright, almost blinding light besieged him just before a strange warmth and darkness settled over him, sucking him into a state of peaceful, mindless oblivion.