Chapter 1

The house that the Cluetts had occupied while in London had always enjoyed a reputation for a kind of dignified stoicism. The Cluetts were an old family, one of the oldest in the land, and this had given them a sort of calm perspective whenever a calamity unfolded before them: They had endured before, they would continue to endure now. Family legend even had it that an ancestress, during the Great London Fire, had calmly and coolly stood in the doorway of her home as it burned down about her, her husband away fighting for the newly restored king, a switch in her hand to deter would-be looters.

There was naught of this trademark composure to be seen on this particular November day. The house was undoubtedly and unreservedly in what could only be described as an uproar. It had started with the arrival of the morning post, a letter from the Viscount Cluett written in a shaking hand setting off alarm throughout the household. He was either very ill, or the victim of highway robbery, or perhaps both. The maids whispered with wide, excited eyes about the possibility of pirates.

This was the first that Seth Cluett heard of it, snatches of whispers from housemaids and footmen who immediately stopped speaking when he entered the room. It was easy for those that did not know him well to assume that Seth was slow or dull-witted; the reality was that he did not particularly enjoy speaking, but he had a quick mind that absorbed all that he saw. There were a multitude of little things that tipped him off that things were not well, from the whispers to the way that the servants would not meet his eye.

He had just sat down to breakfast when a cry of distress went up from the upper floors of the house. Without a thought, Seth was up like a shot, for it could only have been Lady Cluett that had shown such distress. He took the stairs two at a time easily with his long legs, arriving just outside his mother’s door.

He could hear her speaking within, issuing orders in distressed tones to her lady’s maid, O’Toole. Seth had just lifted his hand to knock on the door when the maid in question opened the door, squealing and leaping backward at the surprise of seeing him.

“Did not mean to startle,” he apologised, looking past her to his mother, who was sitting at her dressing table. Her hair was still half in curling papers, a banyan haphazardly wrapped about her. In one hand she held a letter, small and looking well-travelled; her other hand was about the base of her neck, her expression one of intense worry. Seeing Lady Cluett in anything less than immaculate form was enough to cause Seth’s own mouth to go dry.

         “Mother?” Seth asked, brushing past the maid. “What is it? What’s happened?”

         Lady Cluett’s throat worked for a moment before she answered. “It’s your father,” she answered, her voice strained. “It seems that some calamity has befallen him, but I cannot read his writing,” she said, lifting the letter and squinting. “You know what his hand is like at the best of times, and now I fear—look, the letter has become so smudged, I have been trying for an hour to read it, and all I can see is the word ‘attack’.”

         Lady Cluett stopped, lifting the letter to the light and attempting to read more of the words. Even from his position near the door, Seth could see that what she said was true; the letter was clearly blotched, the ink running down the page.

“Here,” Lady Cluett said, waving the letter in Seth’s direction, “see if you can’t get further than I can with your young eyes.”

Wordlessly, Seth stepped forward and gently took the letter from his mother, afraid that he might accidentally tear it. The paper was badly warped and buckling as if it had been thoroughly soaked. He turned toward the window, tilting the letter to try and catch what words he could. Lady Cluett was right, the viscount had always had abysmal handwriting, and it seemed that some unseen distress was causing his hand to shake.

“‘My dear Veronica,” Seth began, reading slowly and carefully. “‘I am in—dine?—dire straits, and find that I have’—the next line is entirely illegible. ‘With favourable winds…but not before collecting what is owed…brought a fever—apron?’ No, ‘upon me.’” Seth stopped reading, his eyes narrowing.

“Well?” Lady Cluett prompted, turned sideways in the chair before her dressing table. Her right hand gripped the back of the chair fiercely, her knuckles turning white. “Don’t leave me in agonies of suspense.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, it is not intentionally done. His hand becomes worse from this point, and with the blots and smudges…” Seth trailed off, tilting the letter toward the light again. “Wait,” he said, bringing it closer to his face. “I can see more. ‘I have little expectation of laying my living eyes on my home again if relief is not found soon.’” Seth stopped reading, not really hearing the words as he spoke them. He looked up sharply, staring at his mother. “You don’t think—should we go to him? Where even is he?”

Lady Cluett turned away, speaking crisply. “Egypt, though, whether he is really there is anyone’s guess.”

“You don’t know for certain?” Seth asked, putting his back to the window.

“I never know for certain,” Lady Cluett said, applying a cream of some description to her neck with vigorous motions, barely concealed anger simmering just below her carefully controlled façade.

“What was he even doing in Egypt?” Seth asked, the letter in his hand growing heavier by the minute.

Lady Cluett made a face of disdain at herself in the mirror for just a moment. “What he always does, I would imagine: Investing our fortune in some fool scheme or another, contriving how to drag more pieces of rocks and statues home.”

Seth said nothing, but pressed his mouth into a tight line. It was no secret that his parents’ marriage had not been a love match, but one of strategic alliance. He knew realistically that this was the pragmatic choice that many made; love was frequently seen as an impediment to a successful marriage, at least at first. It was assumed that fondness would bloom from time and familiarity, but this had not been so for the Cluetts.

It was not really anyone’s fault, Seth supposed. They were simply two very different people, with little enough in common. The Viscount Cluett was an adventurer by nature, rarely content to sit still. He was one of the most widely travelled men in England, seemingly only home long enough to pack his trunk and be off again. The viscountess, by contrast, firmly held that her place and duties were at home, and should be the highest priority.

It did not help that Lady Veronica had brought a sugar plantation of considerable wealth to the marriage in the Caribbean as her dowry. To her great consternation, the viscount had sold it sight unseen, reasoning that the scandal and strife surrounding the sugar industry would only be a taint on the family name. Lady Veronica felt that she had been slighted in some manner, particularly when the fortune that the sale brought in was used to fund the viscount’s capers across the sea. This slight turned into a gulf that only widened between them as the years passed by.

Much like his mother, Seth had never shared his father’s predilection for travel. He much preferred spending his time at his family’s estate, with the occasional sojourn to London. In truth, Seth was happiest when he was left to his own devices, able to tinker with the tenants’ farm machinery, or the large clock in the hall. The estate manager had once taken Seth as a boy to see the mill in action, which had been an almost religious experience for him. His tutors may have despaired at his ability to recite Ovid or Plato, but Seth never faltered when it came to working with his hands.

“I suppose we shan’t know more until the afternoon post,” Lady Cluett said, breaking into Seth’s reflecting. Seth watched her for a few moments, her movements still agitated, her face lined. She caught him looking at her in the mirror, and she waved him off. “Don’t linger, Seth. My earlier outburst was only due to—I am fine now. Go and find some useful occupation.”

Seth said nothing, merely continuing to stare at his mother. He could tell that she was irritated, angry even, but this was a cover for another emotion. It seeped through the cracks of her annoyance when she wasn’t aware that anyone was watching her: fear and perhaps even a twinge of sadness. Her eyes met Seth’s again, and she made a shooing motion at him.

Sighing, Seth made his way back downstairs. His breakfast was long forgotten, gone cold by now. He made his way down through the hall to the library, stopping to stare up at one of the portraits on the wall. It was his grandfather, larger than life, astride a grey stallion with rolling eyes that pawed the ground. His grandfather stared out confidently, one hand on the reins, another pointing far in the distance to a battlefield foggy with distance. He had led troops for Queen Anne as a young man, before he was married. Like other Cluetts of old, he was bold and brilliant, a man of deeds.

Seth couldn’t help but feel his wide shoulders slump a little. His father, his grandfather, all the men of clan Cluett going back to the time of the Conqueror had been men of decisive action. By comparison, Seth was contemplative, cautious even. He had no lust for battle, no urge to plant a flag in some wild and unknown land. His ancestors stared down at him from the walls, and to Seth, it seemed they judged him and found him wanting.

Where do I fit in among these giants? he thought sadly. Who would ever see me in their company? I am invisible compared to them.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one person that saw him, truly and without guile…

Chapter 2

Miss Kitty Johnson’s position in society could never be described as “spectacular.” Her father was a merchant, and no matter his successes, this association would forever taint their family. Society was willing to overlook most in the face of piles of money, but it was generally acknowledged that the Johnson family should not attempt to reach too high.

         Despite her innate position, Kitty had always enjoyed the association of those with rank and title in the ton. This was due partly to her good nature, having a reputation for both wit and kindness in equal turns; those lucky enough to be numbered among her friends found her to be a most loyal companion. It was also true that she received more than her fair share of invitations because she was, in a word, adorable. Her face was a picture of angelic mirth, with a little nose and round green eyes.

         Kitty had always known that she possessed these good qualities, and had assumed that she was also in possession of a generous dowry—she had no reason to suspect otherwise. There was not a shred of arrogance within her; it was merely the way of her world. When she had first laid eyes on Seth Cluett, son and heir to Viscount Cluett, she had known that he was the one for her in much the same way.

         Like herself, he was inclined to good humour, though he spoke little. He was tall and broad of shoulder, a veritable mountain of a man that Kitty was quite pleased to shelter in the shadow of. She was generally the sort of young woman that appreciated the aesthetic of a strapping male specimen, and Mr. Cluett was certainly that. The fact that he was as kind and quietly amusing as he was handsome was enough to send butterflies from the top of Kitty’s head to the tips of her toes.

         Much as Kitty had always understood her own position and better qualities, she had simply understood that she and Mr. Cluett were For One Another. Nevermind that he had originally been in a rather questionable entanglement with her very dearest friend, Lady Eva Galpin, recently married and on her own wedding tour. There was no reason for Kitty to suspect that her own engagement would be announced in short order, particularly as Mr. Cluett had been inclined to find excuses to accompany her about London.

         A few weeks passed after the ordeal with Eva with no proposal forthcoming, which did not bother Kitty. It was only right and proper, after all, to allow the dust to settle from that whole affair (which London was still buzzing about like a colony of bees). These weeks were spent in the throes and thrills of a spring romance, new and budding. Walks in the park, walks to the lending library, laughter and shy looks were their lot.

         Weeks turned into months, spring melting agreeably into summer’s arms. Now, Seth and Kitty enjoyed a friendly familiarity: They knew that they would dance at least twice with each other, possibly more if their mothers were suitably distracted. Flushed cheeks, shared ices in Vauxhall Gardens, impulsive gifts of flowers that Kitty dutifully pressed between the pages of thick books, a warm summer dream that she never wanted to end. Their attachment was patent to all who saw them, and the ton generally agreed that a match was well underway.

         In fact, by the time the leaves were beginning to show the first kisses of autumn colour, hostesses had taken to inviting the pair of them as a matter of course. The more sentimental of the ton hostesses enjoyed the romantic air that they added to any ball or dinner, sighing and reminiscing about their own youth. The more pragmatic of the ton invited them because they were an ornamental addition to any party, inclined to keep conversation light and moving along nicely.

         Kitty’s own mother had begun to discreetly make preparations for the presumed nuptials, adding household linens and lengths of lace to a cedar chest. Mr. Johnson had taken to locking himself into his study for long hours; whenever the idea of an impending wedding was broached, he said nothing, but would frown with ever-deepening creases on his forehead. Kitty, in her bliss, paid his worried expression no mind.

         With all of this in mind, it was inconceivable on a November morning that there was no letter in the afternoon post for Kitty, and she made her opinion known on the subject to an unflappable footman.

         “There can’t be nothing,” Kitty insisted, her little nose wrinkling a little in consternation. “I saw you pull several letters out from the pouch not ten minutes ago!”

         “Yes, Miss, but those were intended for Mr. Johnson,” the footman explained, his tone intractable.

         Kitty lifted her hand, then lowered it, resisting the urge to bite anxiously on her nails, something her mother detested. “Are you quite sure there was nothing for me?” she asked again, hope causing her voice to lift. “Perhaps a letter was caught on the pouch, stuck on the flap or—”

         “No, Miss,” the footman said. Though he generally had the mannerisms of a wooden post, there was a note of contrition in his words and expression.

         Kitty sighed, her shoulders slumped a little. Feeling a little dejected, she mooched her way sullenly into the sitting room where her mother was busy at work with her embroidery hoop. Mrs. Johnson was clearly the mould from which Kitty sprung, sharing the same green-brown eyes and pert nose; however, whereas Kitty’s hair was a voluminous mass of black curls, Mrs. Johnson’s was a rich auburn.

         Mrs. Johnson did not even look up as Kitty, with a touch of melodrama, threw herself dramatically onto a chaise lounge. Feeling as if her troubles were not being given enough due attention, Kitty added in a wistful sigh.

         “Kitty, dear-heart,” Mrs. Johnson said blithely, never looking up from her needlework, “your dramatics are noted, but somewhat underscored by the fact that you are still in your morning dress.”

         Kitty glanced down at herself, then lolled her head backward a little. “I didn’t see much point in getting dressed,” she said, gesturing to the wrapper of indigo paisley and diaphanous dress beneath. “I’ve nowhere to go today.”

         “Is Eva still not returned from her tour?” Mrs. Johnson asked as her needle continued to make perfectly choreographed passes.

         “No,” Kitty grumped, her characteristic good humour failing her. She was pleased that her very dearest friend in the entire world had managed to wed on her own terms, really she was, but she was missing Eva terribly. There was no one else that she could confide in, and the postal service on the Continent wasn’t exactly reliable at this moment. “She and Mr. Galping decided to extend their stay in Italy for another month, leaving me quite alone in London.”

         “Lah,” Mrs. Johnson chided Kitty. “That is not so, not for a girl with as many charms as you. What about Lady Chester? I thought you were becoming fast friends as well.”

         “Departed for Bath two weeks ago,” Kitty sighed. “All of London has emptied, leaving just us.” She turned to give a pitiful look at her mother. “Why haven’t we gone? Usually the house is quite shut up by now.”

         Mrs. Johnson’s rhythmic stitching hesitated for a moment, her hands pausing. “We’ve decided it is more prudent to remain in London this year,” she said, her voice a little tight. She resumed her stitching with renewed vigour, stabbing at the taut fabric in the hoop. “Beside which, if we were to leave, you might not see Mr. Cluett again for some time.”

         Kitty’s face darkened. “So not much change, then,” she grumped. “At least if we were in Bath, I might be ignored in the vicinity of other amusements.”

         “Kitty, I do not think he is ignoring you,” Mrs. Johnson sighed.

         “What do you call it when you have not had a letter, not a sign, for upwards of two weeks now?” Kitty demanded, leaning forward a little. “I call that being ignored.”

         “Perhaps he is simply preoccupied,” Mrs. Johnson suggested. “He is a young man of good expectations; it stands to reason he would have responsibilities.”

         “I suppose,” Kitty allowed. “It is very unlike him though.”

         “Well, I doubt that you shall get any answers as to why sulking around the house,” Mrs. Johnson said, glancing at Kitty. “It is quite unlike you, and not altogether appealing.”

         “What would you do, then?” Kitty asked, not expecting an answer. “I’ve not even been properly introduced to his mother, so it’s not as if I can pay a call on her.”

         “I think you should take a trip to Newton’s,” Mrs. Johnson replied easily. “You could do with a walk.”

         “Newton’s?” Kitty repeated, sitting up, her nose wrinkling a little again. “Why on Earth would I go there? If I wished to visit a lending library, I’d rather go to Brown’s, or anywhere else. Newton’s only has the most ghastly travel diaries and pamphlets on farming.”

         “Yes, but Newton’s is a much better walk,” Mrs. Johnson insisted.

         “How do you figure that? It’s all the way on the other side of the park, near—oh. Oh, I see,” Kitty said, clasping her hands together. “I believe Newton’s is in very close proximity to the Cluetts’ townhouse, no?” Mrs. Johnson said nothing, but gave Kitty a significant look. “Why Mother, are you suggesting that I loiter about on the sidewalk in the hopes that I might meet Mr. Cluett?”

         “I’m suggesting you take a leisurely stroll with your maid, as is good and proper. Whomever you might meet on the way is entirely your own affair,” Mrs. Johnson replied coolly.

         Despite her determination to make her misery known, Kitty’s better nature quickly won out, and her face broke into a gleeful smile. With bouncing energy, she leapt to her feet, already mentally ransacking her wardrobe for the perfect ensemble. She was nearly out into the hall when she abruptly stopped, whirled around, and scurried back into the sitting room to press a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek.

         In the next moment, she was out in the hall, yelling for her maid in a manner that caused her mother to sigh loudly. Any worries that Kitty had been harbouring were banished in the face of a plan; Kitty was naturally a creature of action, and always felt better when she was in motion.

         I will see Mr. Cluett, and I will remind him precisely why he is smitten with me, Kitty thought confidently as she mounted the stairs to her room. There was no doubt in her mind that he was, in fact, smitten; why should she think otherwise? Already, the prospect of seeing him had put a rosy glow into her cheeks and a demure little smile on her face.

Chapter 3

         Given that it was considered highly improper for young ladies to simply loiter about, wandering the streets without a clear destination, it was a tricky enterprise for Kitty to do exactly that without looking as if that was what she was doing. She had brought her maid along with her, but there were really only so many times that the pair could pass before the Cluett house before it became obvious.

         The multiple trips down the sidewalk proved useful in an unexpected way, however. Kitty had become quite adept at Noticing Things, which served her well in the ton; young ladies had little power and assets at their disposal, and information (or gossip, if one were being less charitable) was about their only real bargaining chip. These powers of observation were setting off alarms in Kitty’s head, but she could not figure out precisely why.

         The Cluett house was never exactly famed for its hospitality, but there was a new air of coldness about the grey stone edifice that was almost palpable. The shades were drawn tightly, though it was the middle of the day. The outer door was closed up securely, indicating that the family was not at home to unexpected visitors. The whole house almost had the look of abandonment, as if the family had quit London and retired to their estate.

         Kitty frowned. She had not considered that possibility, that perhaps Lady Cluett had simply pulled up stakes and followed the ton to Bath and other points south. Seth would have been dragged along behind his mother, likely with little to no warning. It was entirely possible that Kitty was risking her reputation for no good reason.

         Bertha, her maid, seemed inclined to agree. “It’s getting on toward four o’clock soon, Miss,” she said, her eyes darting about. “You wouldn’t want to be caught out of doors as evening falls.”

         “Don’t fret, Bertha,” Kitty said, reassuring her without much conviction. “We’ll be on our way shortly.”

         “Best we were on our way, Miss,” Bertha insisted, worry limning her face. “I’ve heard-tell that the Bow Street Runners have become enthusiastic in their efforts to arrest women of a—a certain profession,” Bertha said, her voice dropping to a scandalised whisper.

         “Bertha, are you suggesting that I could be mistaken for—” Kitty began.

         “Oh, no, Miss, no,” Bertha said, her face blanching a little. “Not by any person with sense in their head, but the Runners…” She gave a little shrug. “I’ve heard that they’re arresting any unaccompanied women found out on the streets when the lamplighters come out.”

         “That’s absurd, Bertha, all of London would be locked up at the Brown Bear,” Kitty said, dismissing her and craning her neck to survey the sidewalk as she made a great show of shuffling onward all the same.

         Bertha obediently bowed her head, her white cap hiding her forehead. “All the same, Miss, I’ve heard that they’re picking ladies up far outside Covent Garden now. Some are being pinched just for leaving home without their bonnet or shawl!”

         Kitty gave Bertha a level look. “As I clearly have both, I imagine we’ll be safe from the Runners for a little longer,” she said, gesturing up to her bonnet. It was a rather fabulous confection, creamy silk with a dark brown ribbon about the crown, tied beneath her chin to one side. Silk flowers in complementing earth tones and dusty pinks nestled on one side, with a spray of curled feathers completing the look. It was a particular favourite of Kitty’s, and she fancied it quite becoming.

         But Bertha was right; she’d wasted quite enough time making herself look ridiculous. In spite of her bravado, she drew her soft cashmere shawl tighter about her shoulders, determined to set off for home. She couldn’t help but sigh; it was an inglorious end to a promising attachment, if the end it was.

         Kitty had just turned back to hurry Bertha along, heedless of where her feet were taking her, when she ran smack into something so solid that she stumbled back awkwardly half a step.

         “Miss Johnson?” Mr. Cluett asked, peering down at Kitty, who was a little dazed, and not just from the impact. “Please, forgive me, thought it might be you, and—and I wished to see you.”

         “Think nothing of it,” Kitty said breezily, attempting to appear unconcerned. “I’m always happy to run into you,” she added with a winning smile. She fancied that any man would be smitten with her in this moment, for she had not only been blessed with a smile that turned her cheeks into adorable little apples, but she had taken great care with her toilette.

         She had worn her favourite walking dress in a dark pink silesia that bordered on orange. The bodice was cut in a deep v, filled with a wine-coloured satin that was pleated. Matching buttons on the sleeves and back were complemented by sparse embroidery in the same shade. Her hair, though hidden by her bonnet, was curled and elegantly drawn back, with a braid crossing from ear-to-ear. Soft curls hung down by her face, highlighting her eyes that always sparkled with good humour. Her shawl was a paisley printed cashmere of surpassing softness, which was draped elegantly through her elbows.

         Mr. Cluett smiled at her pun, looking a little dazed himself. As much as Kitty would like to have taken credit for his befuddlement, something seemed amiss with him. Her eyes narrowed a little, roving over his face. There were lines near his mouth, and his eyes were hooded and tired.

         “What is it? Are you unwell?” Kitty asked, her teasing nature giving way to genuine concern.

         “I am fine,” Seth said, clearly.

         Kitty was unconvinced, and stepped back, observing Mr. Cluett closely. This was always a welcome pastime for Kitty, who could by all accounts be considered something of an expert on the fashionable male form. Her eyes danced over him, noting the fine cut of his jacket, black in colour with a velvet collar, that matched the black velvet band around his black hat—

         “Oh—oh, Mr. Cluett, you are in mourning!” Kitty realised, placing one gloved hand to her mouth. “Oh gracious me, please do forgive my glibness. If I had known, I never would have—”

         “No,” Mr. Cluett said firmly, shaking his head. “Don’t apologise; you are a welcome respite from…” He trailed off, but indicated the house, dark and dreary as if it, too, were mourning.

         “Might I be so bold as to ask whom you are in mourning for?” Kitty inquired, stepping slightly closer again.

         “My father,” Mr. Cluett answered simply, his shoulders falling just a little.

         “Your—the Viscount? Dead? But how? He was the picture of health when we saw him last spring!” Kitty exclaimed. She struggled with the urge to place a comforting hand on his arm.

         “Not sure,” Mr. Cluett said. “Happened far away, Egypt. Hard to get information out of there just now. Having to get his affairs in order, and trying to—to bring him home.” He paused, swallowing hard.

         “And all of this has fallen to you?” Kitty asked. She did not bother to check her impulse to place one hand on his arm. “You poor thing, what a dreadful time this is for you.” Kitty had met some men who could not stand to be pitied, even when it was born from genuine empathy; Mr. Cluett was not that sort of man.

         In fact, he looked relieved—rueful, perhaps—but relieved. Tentatively, he raised one of his large hands and placed it over Kitty’s, his touch surprisingly tender for a man of his size. Kitty knew all too well what sort of burden had just been abruptly dropped onto him. He had no doubt assumed that he still had years of freedom before him, but now…

         Kitty’s eyes flicked to the house. “Is it just you and Lady Cluett in there?”

         Mr. Cluett—now Lord Cluett, Viscount of Shropshire—nodded glumly. “Butting heads just now.”

         “That isn’t difficult to imagine,” Kitty muttered.

         “Perhaps you can help,” Mr. Cluett said, brightening a little. “Something of a moral quandary, and an outside perspective may help.”

         Kitty shifted a little, not wishing to intrude on such a familial conflict. “I will if I can, of course.”

         “Mother insists that I go to Egypt and return Father home to the family crypt in Shropshire,” he explained, his brown eyes sad. “But they’ve already buried him there—in Egypt—and it seems a terrible thing to disturb him.”

         Kitty was taken aback. This was not what she had expected, but she could see that the new viscount was indeed greatly troubled. “I suppose they’d have had to bury him quickly, with the climate,” she offered weakly. She could feel his eyes on her still, even as she looked down and away, out over the street. “Your father, he was a great traveller, wasn’t he?”

         Mr. Cluett nodded. “Never sat still for long.”

         Kitty bit her lip, afraid that she was about to put her polished walking boot into her mouth if she wasn’t careful. “He was not particularly at peace at home, then?” When Mr. Cluett shook his head, she soldiered on. “Then I would let him rest where he was happiest. If he wished to be in Shropshire, he would already be there, no?”

         Immediately, Mr. Cluett’s face brightened a little. It seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “That is precisely what I thought as well. Not sure I’d want to be taken from the place I love, either.”

         In spite of the bleak conversation, Kitty found that she could not keep herself from smiling at Mr. Cluett. “I know that this is not something you likely wish to hear just yet, but I think you will be a very good viscount.”

         Mr. Cluett—Lord Cluett—smiled in answer, his cheeks colouring slightly. “I was going to write to you,” he confessed, “but wasn’t sure what to say. Terrible at letter writing, you know.”

         “Yes, I know,” Kitty replied gently.

         “But then I thought I saw you passing by, and thought I’d take a chance,” Mr. Cluett said, his face smoothing into a kind expression that made Kitty’s heart glad.

         “We’ve been to Newton’s,” Kitty said by way of explanation, and Bertha, recognising her cue, obediently lifted her basket with a few books prominently stacked within.

         “Glad you were here,” Lord Cluett said quietly, but emphatically.

         It was only then that Kitty realised that her hand was still on his arm, with his own bear paw of a hand covering it still. Her eyes shifted to their joined hands, and after a moment, Lord Cluett’s gaze followed hers. Gingerly, and with surprising gravity, he lifted her hand in his, clasping her fingers gently as if he meant to bend and press a kiss to them. Kitty’s breath hitched for a beat, for she truly thought that he meant to do so right there, in the midst of a London sidewalk.

         He did not, merely pressed her fingers that so perfectly curled around his hand. His other hand came up to gently cover her hand so that her fingers were caught between his. Despite his superior size and strength, his touch was remarkably soft; at no point did Kitty feel like she would have to exert more than a butterfly’s strength to withdraw.

         “Wish I could invite you in, but…” he trailed off, his eyes flicking to the house again.

         “It’s not the best time for you to introduce me to your lady-mother,” Kitty finished for him. “Yes, I understand.”

         “Things will be chaotic for a while, and I don’t know when I shall be able to see you again,” Lord Cluett said unhappily. “But I shall write to you, I promise,” he added hurriedly, a steely look passing over his face.

         “I can’t tell you how much I look forward to it,” Kitty murmured, giving him another smile, her eyes shining, her cheeks lightly blushing.

         “Can’t tell you how much seeing you has cheered me—like seeing the sun from the bottom of a well,” Lord Cluett said a little breathlessly, staring at her with all of his affection writ large on his face.

         Kitty laughed softly, airily, placing her free hand overtop their joined hands. “I shall await your letter with all eagerness.”

         If Kitty had been anxious that the new Lord Cluett meant to kiss her hand on the street, she was equal parts thrilled and terrified when it looked as if he might actually kiss her lips. They stared into each other’s eyes, pulled toward each other as if caught by gravity. Kitty knew it was improper, she was a respectable young lady, and respectable young ladies did not allow young men to kiss them on the street. Still, her breath came quicker and faster, her lips parted softly, waiting—

         “Ahem,” Bertha said, abruptly and noisily clearing her throat.

         The interruption brought Kitty back to reality, and she blinked up at Lord Cluett, who pulled back to a respectable distance. Kitty looked about, remembering where she was. She gave Lord Cluett’s hands a last reassuring squeeze.

         “I will wait for your letter,” she said, her words weighted significantly. Lord Cluett nodded slowly in reply, and Kitty knew that he understood exactly what she was actually saying.

         With great reluctance, Kitty withdrew her hands. The separation was stark and sharp. It took all of her willpower not to look back at him as she began her slow journey back home. She flexed her hands, fingers feeling oddly cold and light now.

         “I hope he doesn’t realise we’re going back the direction he saw us coming from,” Bertha muttered under her breath.

Chapter 4

         There were some that might assume Kitty was a flighty girl because of her lightness of being. It was true that she seemed to flit from one place to another with ease, unburdened, but this was an elaborate cover; the truth was that she was excessively sentimental, covering her tender heart with protective layers of joviality and ease. When she was troubled, she took great pains to appear at her most content.

         Such was the case in the days that she waited to hear from Lord Cluett. To the rest of the world, Kitty Johnson appeared as she always had: Light, always ready with a smile and a gentle jape. Inwardly, she was suffering an agony of anticipation. At every delivery of post, she would trip eagerly through the hall or skip down the stairs, skipping the last step and landing on both feet as was her girlish habit. She tried to be patient, reminding herself that the new Lord Cluett would be preoccupied with much in these early days.

         “Try to be still, Kitty,” her mother admonished her with a sigh, again and again. The news of the previous viscount’s death had spread quickly, and Mrs. Johnson had looked as if she’d swallowed a canary when she heard. It was no secret that the son was harbouring a tendre for her daughter.

         I can endure anything, Kitty thought to herself. I can smile and be the picture of patience, and no one will know that all the while I am in agonies.

         She was as good as her word…but then, the days turned to weeks, and Lord Cluett sent no word to her. There was no invitation to his mother’s house, no letters renewing his promise or affections. Kitty did her best not to waiver, sure in this kind, gentle man that she had been fortunate enough to find. She wasn’t a fatalist by heart, but she refused to believe that it could have been a simple coincidence that brought them together; the circumstances were too strange.

         At last, when Kitty thought that she might burst from waiting, there was a knock on the door. There had been a lot of them lately, men in dark jackets with creased faces parading in and out of her father’s study. She ignored them, as they had little interest for her, much as his business interests had always been uninteresting.

         This time was different; a voice was in the hall, deep and speaking lowly. Kitty could not make out the words from her place in the sitting room, seated near her mother as they both worked on painting a delicate pattern of flowers on a table. At the sound of the man’s voice, Kitty’s heart quickened, her cheeks flushing.

         “Is that Viscount Cluett?” Mrs. Johnson hissed, but Kitty found that she could not speak. Taking a look at Kitty’s face, this was all of the confirmation that Mrs. Johnson needed.

         She was up like a shot, pulling Kitty to her feet and quickly removing the apron that had protected her calico day dress. “Quickly, now!” Mrs. Johnson urged, at last getting Kitty to come to her senses. Together, they hoisted the small table, putting it to one side. With her heel, Mrs. Johnson scooted their discarded supplies under the chaise lounge.

         By the time the footman entered the sitting room to announce the guest, Kitty and Mrs. Johnson were both seated serenely, small reading volumes in their hands. The newly minted Lord Cluett loomed behind the footman, filling the doorway. From the onset, it was clear that he was in a state of agitation, his dark brown hat in his hands, which he turned over and over again.

         Kitty looked down, attempting to compose herself as the requisite introductions were made between Lord Cluett and Mrs. Johnson. It was only then that she realised that it was a fortunate thing indeed that the gentleman seemed so distracted, for the book that she was pretending to read was upside down in her hands.

         “It is so good of you to call on us, Lord Cluett,” Mrs. Johnson was saying mildly. “I am sure that you must have a great deal of things weighing on your time.”

         “Yes,” Lord Cluett agreed, his face oddly stiff and troubled. “To that end… I know this is very sudden, but might I request the privilege of speaking with Miss Johnson alone?”

         Mrs. Johnson made a kind of surprised fluttering motion with her hands as if she had no idea what that could possibly entail. She looked to Kitty for acceptance of this, which Kitty was immediately grateful for. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and Mrs. Johnson curtseyed and departed, but not without giving Kitty a significant look. There was little doubt in Kitty’s mind that Mrs. Johnson was listening at the keyhole.

         “Would you care to sit?” Kitty asked as Lord Cluett continued to stand stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back.

         “Yes,” he said reluctantly. The moment he sat, however, he sprang back up, pacing the room in great strides. “No, I should not. That is—it is hard to know what is proper in these situations.”

         “What ‘situations’ might that be, my Lord?” Kitty asked, attempting to keep all excitement from her voice.

         “This is…I did not want to do this in this manner,” Lord Cluett said, stopping his pacing to stare out a window to the street for a moment. “Deserve better, which—which I suppose is the whole point.”

         A strange feeling was curling up in Kitty’s stomach, like a snake of apprehension. Something was odd, starting with the way that Lord Cluett was speaking, unnaturally clipped. “Please do not make yourself uneasy for my sake,” Kitty said, laying her book aside.

         To her surprise, Lord Cluett whirled about, and in three great steps, was standing before her again. “Thought of nothing but your comfort for days now.” He sat again, this time quite near her on the lounge, their knees almost touching. He angled himself toward her, perched precariously on the edge of his seat as if he meant to dash off at any moment.

         “Miss Johnson,” he began, unbearably formal, “my father’s death has brought many things into sharp relief, and shined a bright light on others that had been hidden for some time. Have every intention of leading my family honourably, performing my duties.” He paused, looking a little worn out and troubled from reciting this speech.

         Kitty found herself naturally turning toward him as well. “I have never doubted it, Lord Cluett; your family should be grateful to have such an honourable man at its head. I’m only sorry that you lost your father so young.”

         “Honour—yes,” Lord Cluett said, seizing onto this word. “It is a matter of honour, yes. Must tell you something in great confidence, but won’t insult you by asking you to keep it secret; all of London will know soon enough.”

         “Of course,” Kitty said, the feeling in her stomach growing and coiling tighter.

         Lord Cluett took a deep breath, his large torso expanding even more. “Father was… No, that is not right. I do not even know what sort of man he was, not really. On his travels, it seemed that he made some…unwise investments.”

         “Oh dear,” Kitty said, sympathetic. She had heard her own mother pecking at her father on a similar score, questioning the manner in which their funds were invested.

         “To put a fine point on it, my family is ruined, or nearly,” Lord Cluett said bluntly.

         “Ruined? But how—your estate?” Kitty said, dropping her voice out of consideration for the subject.

         “Mortgaged to the roof,” he said, his face unhappy. “Had wondered why we weren’t there of late, and now I know. I shall have to lease it out to start paying for it, possibly sell some of the land.”

         “Sell the land?” Kitty repeated, aghast. “Oh, dear one, no! This is too awful for you, I am genuinely so very sorry for all of it.”

         “There’s more,” Lord Cluett continued. “It seems that in all of this, Father did make one wise investment: A significant amount of capital was invested into Canadian timber. A mine, too,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

         “That’s good though, is it not? At least your holdings have a lifeline, then,” Kitty said, trying as ever to put a cheery face onto things.

         “Perhaps,” Lord Cluett allowed, but hesitated again. “They’ve been terribly mismanaged, from what can be gleaned from the books. They need to be taken in hand, and quickly.” He stopped speaking, turning to Kitty again, his eyes searching her face.

         Of course, Kitty understood at once: There was no one else that could be trusted with this task. The new viscount meant to solve his own monetary woes with his own two hands, as the saying went. Kitty felt a terrible foreboding wash over her, but attempted to tamp it down; Lord Cluett had more than enough worries piled onto his broad shoulders.

         “I’m not sure what weight my opinion on the matter carries, but I am very sure that you shall do splendidly, just so long as you don’t get eaten by a bear,” Kitty said with forced lightness. “Perhaps Father might have some guidance for you.”

         Lord Cluett slowly shook his head, gripping his hat so tightly that Kitty could hear the brim creak. “Not why I’m here—kind of you to offer—but you must understand that I… I’m not in a position to—to marry,” he ground out. “Thought you should be the first to know.”

         It was hard, but of course Kitty understood. “Well, it’s not the most auspicious of beginnings, I grant you, but should you ask, I am willing to await your return from the wild frontier.”

         She could feel Lord Cluett take a deep, shuddering breath. “That’s just it,” he said, looking down at his hat. “Can’t—won’t—ask you to wait. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone, could be years, the crossing isn’t reliable, and…anything could happen. Not fair for you; you must live your life.”

         “What? Do you think I couldn’t bear the waiting? I’m made of sterner stuff than anyone credits me with. Why, I was the one—” Kitty began, indignant to cover her hurt.

         “No,” Lord Cluett said emphatically, dropping his hat to take Kitty’s hands in his. “That’s the trouble: Not a doubt that you could, that you would, wait. But you mustn’t,” he said, gently pressing her hands. “Can’t bear the thought of leaving you, but thinking of you always waiting, letting life pass you by…that would kill me. Truly.” He dipped his head, trying to catch Kitty’s eye. “You must understand, yes? Can’t leave with this on my conscience.”

         Kitty found that her throat had closed over with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, painfully, and extracted one of her hands to swipe quickly at her eyes.

         “Don’t worry your head about me,” Kitty said, patting Lord Cluett’s arm as if he were a fretting child. “You go off and conquer the New World. I will be fine.”

         Lord Cluett stared at her for long moments. Kitty flashed him a smile, wishing to send him off comforted; whatever her feelings were, she would not dare to add to his worries. He stood slowly, retrieving his fallen hat as he did so. When he was nearly to the door, he turned back as if he were going to say something else to her, but thought better of it.

         Blindly, Kitty smiled at him again, her eyes clouded by tears that she refused to let fall. Only when she heard the front door open and then close again did she turn away, the proverbial dam bursting. The room was colder, everything a little greyer. Whatever her sadness, her resolve remained steadfast.

         I won’t abandon him so lightly, she thought, wiping at her eyes again. I’ve waited this long for him

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