PROLOGUE

Penharrow’s Hunting Lodge, Welsh Marches – March 1813

The early spring crocuses were the first sign of hope Megan had seen in weeks. She knelt in the cold earth of the kitchen garden, her fingers working carefully around the delicate purple blooms, and allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that she was somewhere else. Someone else.

A woman who chose to garden because she enjoyed it, not because it was the only time she was permitted outside her gilded cage.

“Miss Megan.”

The voice shattered the illusion. Megan didn’t look up immediately, taking a moment to compose her face into the careful mask of serenity she’d perfected over the years. Only then did she turn to see Mrs. Griffiths, the housekeeper, standing at the edge of the garden path. The older woman’s expression was apologetic, but her posture was rigid with the knowledge that she was being watched.

They were always watched.

“Yes, Mrs. Griffiths?”

“A message, Miss Megan. From His Lordship.” The housekeeper extended a folded piece of paper, sealed with Penharrow’s crest—a raven clutching a bleeding heart. How fitting, Megan thought bitterly, that he’d chosen such a crest.

She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her hands, aware of the guard standing near the garden gate. Thomas, the younger one, who sometimes looked at her with pity before remembering himself and glancing away. Not that pity helped her. Pity never helped anyone.

Megan looked at the note, and her heart had already begun its familiar, sickening descent into dread. Penharrow was in London. He’d been in London for nearly four weeks. The hunting lodge had been blessedly quiet, and she’d begun to hope—foolishly, always foolishly—that perhaps he’d found some new interest to occupy him. Some new woman to torment.

“You’ll have to read it for me.” She hated how Penharrow forbade her to learn to read and write. 

Mrs. Griffiths read it for her.

My dearest Megan,

I find London unutterably dull without your company. I shall return this evening and expect to find you properly prepared for my arrival. Bathe thoroughly. Wear the green silk—you know the one. Leave your hair loose. I shall come to your rooms at nine o’clock.

Do not disappoint me.

Yours always, P.

The words were polite, almost tender, if one didn’t know better. But Megan knew better. She knew what each carefully chosen phrase meant. Properly prepared meant scrubbed until her skin was raw, scented with the perfume he preferred, every hair plucked and every imperfection concealed. The green silk was the nightgown he’d had made for her last year, so sheer it might as well not exist. Do not disappoint me was a threat dressed in courteous language.

And she knew, with the certainty born of fourteen years in his keeping, exactly what would happen at nine o’clock.

“Shall I prepare your bath, my lady?” Mrs. Griffiths asked quietly as she crumpled the missive in her fist. The housekeeper’s eyes held that same helpless pity Megan had learned to despise. Pity changed nothing. Pity was the luxury of those who could walk away.

“Yes, thank you.” Megan said as she fought the tears. She’d shed enough tears over that man, and he would not make her shed more. “I’ll come in shortly.”

Mrs. Griffiths hesitated, then dropped a curtsy and retreated toward the house. Thomas, the guard, remained at his post, his hand resting on the pistol at his belt. Not that Megan would run. Where would she go? They were miles from the nearest village, deeper still into the wild Welsh mountains. She’d tried running before.

She’d learned.

Megan turned back to her crocuses, kneeling once more in the dirt. Her hands trembled slightly as she touched the delicate petals, and she forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly. Panic helped nothing. Tears helped nothing. She’d cried all her tears years ago.

How had she come to this?

The question was almost laughable in its futility. She knew exactly how she’d come to this. She could trace the path as clearly as the network of roots beneath the soil.

She’d been seven years old at a village fair, clutching her nurse’s hand, delighted by the ribbons and the music and the honey cakes. And then a handsome man had smiled at her, offered her an apple, and when her nurse turned away for just a moment—

Gone.

She remembered the carriage ride, the way the handsome man’s smile had turned cold when she’d cried for her mama. She remembered arriving at this very house, being told her name was Megan now, that her old life was gone, that she belonged to the Earl of Penharrow, and she’d better learn to be grateful.

For years, he’d kept her like a doll. Dressed her in fine clothes, had her taught deportment and how to play the pianoforte, but she had never been allowed to learn her letters. She knew now it was so she could not use notes to ask for help. He’d given her toys and trinkets and told her she was his special girl, his treasure, the daughter he’d never had.

She’d believed him, in the way desperate children believe the lies that make their captivity bearable.

And then she’d turned sixteen.

Megan closed her eyes against the memory of that night. The night the pretense of paternal affection had shattered, and she’d learned what he’d prepared her for all along. The night she’d fought, and screamed, and discovered that no one would come to help her. That the servants had been told she was his ward, a distant relation, troubled and prone to hysterics. That the nearest magistrate was in Penharrow’s pocket. That she was utterly, completely alone.

That had been five years ago.

Five years of being his possession, his plaything, his prisoner in all but name. Five years of smiling when commanded, wearing what he chose, accepting his touch because refusal meant punishment, not only for her, but for any servant who showed her kindness.

She’d learned that lesson too.

Her fingers stilled on the crocuses as the memory surfaced, sharp and bitter as bile.

His name had been Daniel. A young groom, barely twenty, with kind eyes and a gentle way with the horses. He’d been new to Penharrow’s service, didn’t yet understand the rules. When Megan had asked him, in a moment of desperate hope, if he might help her get a message to the authorities—to anyone who might help—he’d agreed.

Penharrow had discovered the plan within a day.

Megan would never forget the way Daniel had looked at her from the gallows Penharrow had erected in the stable yard. The Earl didn’t believe in turning criminals over to the magistrates when he could dispense his own justice. Theft, he’d called it. The groom had stolen from his employer.

Everyone knew it was a lie.

Everyone had watched anyway as Daniel hanged, his neck broken, his body left swinging as a warning.

And Penharrow had made Megan watch, his hand gentle on her shoulder, his voice soft in her ear: “You see what happens when you make me angry, my dear? I would hate for anyone else to suffer because of your foolishness.”

That was three years ago. Since then, Megan had stopped asking for help. They’d had a visitor recently, James. She’d refused to let him help her. He’d left and she stopped trying to involve others in her escape attempts. Because she’d learned the cruelest truth of all, that Penharrow would kill anyone who tried to free her, and he’d make her watch.

She couldn’t bear any more blood on her hands.

A breeze rustled through the garden, carrying the scent of damp earth and coming rain. Megan looked up at the gray sky, then at the stone walls of the hunting lodge that had been her prison for most of her life. Somewhere beyond those mountains was the world she barely remembered. Somewhere out there, people lived freely, made their own choices, loved whom they pleased.

She would never be one of them. Not as long as Penharrow lived.

The thought crystallized with sudden, cold clarity.

Not as long as Penharrow lived.

She’d tried escaping four times in the early years. Each time, he’d found her. The last time had cost Daniel his life. She’d tried to run, to hide, to seek help from others.

Perhaps it was time to consider a different approach.

Penharrow kept a pistol in his study. She’d seen it, a dueling piece, ornate and deadly. He also kept a collection of knives, souvenirs from his travels. And then there were the household poisons—arsenic for the rats, belladonna in the garden, a dozen substances that could kill a man if administered correctly.

Megan had worked with the gardener. She knew which plants were poisonous, which ones caused a slow death, which were quick.

The thought should have horrified her. Good women didn’t contemplate murder, but Megan was long past pretending to be good. Goodness was a luxury afforded to women who had choices. She had only survival.

What would happen when Penharrow tired of her? What if she grew too old?

She was in no doubt that he’d simply kill her.

And if she couldn’t escape Penharrow, perhaps she could kill him first.

The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. She’d never killed anyone. Could she do it? Could she look into his eyes as the poison took hold, or pull a trigger, or drive a blade between his ribs?

The memory of Daniel’s body swinging from the gallows answered that question.

Yes. She could.

She would need to be careful. Plan meticulously. Penharrow was intelligent and suspicious, and any unusual behavior would alert him, but she had advantages too. He thought her broken, compliant, too afraid to act. He thought fourteen years of captivity had taught her helplessness.

He was wrong.

Megan stood, brushing the dirt from her skirts. The crocuses nodded in the breeze, delicate and resilient. They’d pushed through frozen earth to reach the light. They’d survived.

So would she.

She turned toward the house, her decision made. She would bathe as commanded. She would wear the green silk. She would submit to him tonight, as she had submitted countless nights before.

But she would also watch and wait and plan.

And when the moment came—when she’d prepared everything perfectly, when she was certain of success—she would act.

Penharrow had taken everything from her. Her childhood. Her innocence. Her freedom. He’d stolen her very name, her identity, transforming her from whatever she’d been at seven years old into this creature he’d molded for his pleasure.

But he’d made one critical mistake.

He’d kept her alive.

And as long as she lived, she was dangerous.

“My lady?” Thomas called from the gate. “Best get inside. Rain’s coming.”

Megan nodded and walked toward the house, her spine straight, her face composed. She looked, she knew, like the perfect lady. Beautiful, refined, obedient.

Penharrow’s prisoner.

But inside, where he couldn’t see, something had shifted. A spark had caught, small but growing. Not hope—she’d learned better than to hope. But something harder. Something cold and sharp as a blade.

Determination.

She would escape this life. Either by running far enough that he’d never find her, or by ensuring he never drew breath to search.

One way or another, Megan would be free.

Or she would die trying.

CHAPTER ONE

London-November, eight months later

The rain lashed against the windows of White’s with a fury that matched the tempest building in Oliver Sommerset, Marquess of Astor’s, chest. He stood before the fire in the club’s reading room, one hand braced against the mantelpiece, the other crushing the letter he’d been expecting but hoping would never come. It had arrived not ten minutes prior. Around him, the usual denizens of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club continued their evening rituals—cards, brandy, gossip—oblivious to the fact that his world had just shattered.

“Bad news, Astor?”

Oliver didn’t turn at the sound of Lord Weatherby’s voice. He couldn’t trust himself to school his features into the mask of aristocratic indifference that was expected of a man of his station. Instead, he focused on the flames, watching them devour a log with the same methodical efficiency he would soon apply to destroying the man who had murdered his closest friend.

“Family matter,” Oliver said, his voice flat, emotionless. It was not entirely a lie. James Hartley had been closer than family. Closer than the cold uncle who had raised him after his parents’ deaths, closer than the distant second-cousins who circled his eventual dukedom like vultures. James had been the only person in England who knew Oliver Sommerset, not just the Marquess of Astor, and heir to the Saxton dukedom, one of the oldest titles in the realm.

And now James was dead.

“Ah.” Weatherby, sensing the dismissal, retreated with a murmured condolence.

Oliver waited until the man’s footsteps faded before he smoothed out the crumpled letter. The paper was of good quality, the handwriting precise—the work of some country solicitor tasked with informing him that Captain James Hartley, late of His Majesty’s cavalry, had been found dead in Wales. A riding accident, the letter claimed. The captain’s horse had thrown him on a rocky hillside, and he’d struck his head. Death was instantaneous.

A tragic mishap. The man sent his regrets.

Oliver’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. James Hartley had been one of the finest horsemen in the cavalry. He’d ridden through the chaos of the Peninsular War, navigating terrain that would have killed lesser men, dodging French musket fire and Portuguese bandits with equal skill. The notion that a Welsh hillside had bested him was an insult to both men’s intelligence.

The solicitor’s letter was a polite fiction. But the second letter—the one that had arrived three days ago, before news of James’s death had reached London—that letter told the truth.

Oliver reached into his coat pocket and withdrew it carefully, as though it were made of glass. The paper was cheap, water-stained, the handwriting shaky but unmistakably James’s. Oliver had received hundreds of letters in that hand over the years, from Eton to Cambridge to the blood-soaked battlefields of Spain. He knew every loop and flourish.

This was James’s last letter. Written in his final hours.

 

Oliver,

If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’ve arranged for this to reach you through channels Penharrow won’t think to intercept. Forgive the dramatics, old friend, but I haven’t much time and there’s much you need to know.

The Earl of Penharrow murdered me. I have no proof that would stand in court, but I know it as surely as I know my own name. I witnessed something I shouldn’t have—a gambling debt being collected through violence that left a man crippled. When Penharrow realized I’d seen, he invited me to his hunting lodge to “discuss terms.” I was a fool to go alone, but I hoped my rank may have protected me. If you’re reading this, I was wrong.

He won’t make it look like murder. Too many questions. An accident, probably. The Welsh countryside is treacherous, after all.

Oliver, I need you to promise me that you will not seek legal justice. Penharrow owns every magistrate within one-hundred miles of his Welsh estates. He’s untouchable through proper channels. But there’s a woman, Megan. Penharrow keeps her at his hunting lodge, guarded like a prisoner. She may be the only witness to his crimes, but more than that, old friend, she is a prisoner. If you can do nothing else, free her.

I wish I had more time to explain, but they’re coming. I suspect I’ll not leave Wales alive. Know that your friendship has been one of the great honors of my life. If there’s an afterlife, I’ll see you there for brandy and cards.

Yours, James

 

Oliver had read the letter so many times in the past three days that he’d memorized every word, every desperate scratch of the pen. He’d read it in his study, in his carriage, in the sleepless hours before dawn. He’d read it until the words blurred and his hands shook with a rage so profound it felt like a living thing coiled in his chest.

He’d been readying himself to head to Wales when the second letter arrived today.

James had known he was going to die. Had known and had used his final moments to write this letter, to ensure that Oliver would know the truth.

And Oliver would ensure that truth mattered.

He folded both letters carefully and tucked them into his coat. Without a word to anyone, he strode from the reading room, collected his hat and gloves from the porter, and descended the steps of White’s into the rain-soaked street. His carriage waited at the curb; the driver huddled miserably on his seat.

“Home,” Oliver ordered, climbing inside without assistance.

The rain had intensified by the time Oliver’s carriage rattled through the streets of Mayfair toward Berkeley Square. He’d felt alone most of his life. His parents died when he was a boy and his uncle, the Duke of Saxton, had only daughters. James had filled a huge void in his life and was the brother he’d never had.

He watched the oil lamps blur past through the water-streaked windows, his mind already moving through the logistics of what came next. Wales was a three-day journey in good weather. In November, with the roads beginning to be mired in winter mud, it could take twice that. He would need to travel light, bring only the essentials, and move quickly.

Most importantly, he would need to move quietly.

The carriage pulled to a halt before his townhouse—an elegant four-story structure in Berkeley Square that had belonged to the Saxton family for generations. A present from his uncle once Oliver had come of age. He ascended without waiting for the footman, taking the steps two at a time.

He’d barely crossed the threshold when his butler materialized from the shadows of the entrance hall.

“My lord.” Hastings took Oliver’s wet coat with the careful deference of a man who’d served the Saxton family for three decades. “I trust your evening at the club was satisfactory?”

“Send word to my valet,” Oliver said, ignoring the question. “Tell Morrison to pack for travel. I’ll be leaving London tomorrow.”

Hastings’s expression didn’t change, but Oliver caught the slight widening of the man’s eyes. “May I ask the destination, my lord?”

“Wales.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Shall I inform His Grace?”

Oliver’s lip curled slightly. His uncle, the Duke of Saxton, was in residence at the family’s country estate near Shrewsbury, no doubt wondering why his heir apparent spent so much time in London instead of attending to his duties. The old man would have opinions about a sudden trip to Wales. He had opinions about everything Oliver did.

“No,” Oliver said. “I’ll write to him myself.”

It was a lie, of course. He had no intention of informing his uncle of anything. By the time the duke learned of this journey, it would be far too late to stop it.

“Very good, my lord. Will you be dining in this evening?”

“I’ll have a tray in my study, thank you.” Oliver moved toward the stairs, then paused. “Hastings, send for Webb as well. Tell him I need to see him in my study immediately.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Oliver climbed the stairs to the second floor, his wet boots leaving dark prints on the Turkish runner. Inside, his household hummed with quiet activity, servants moving through their evening routines, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchens below. To anyone observing, it was an ordinary Thursday evening in the Saxton townhouse.

No one would suspect that their master was planning a risky escapade.

Oliver entered his study and closed the door behind him, finally allowing the mask to slip. He stood in the darkness for a long moment, his hands clenched at his sides, the rage and grief warring within him with such intensity he thought he might shatter from it.

James was dead.

The words kept echoing in his mind, a litany he couldn’t escape. James, who had pulled him from beneath a dying horse at Salamanca. James, who had gotten drunk with him the night before Talavera and sworn that if they survived, they’d retire to the country and raise horses. James, who’d been the only person to write to him regularly during those dark months after his parents died, when Oliver was thirteen and suddenly alone, raised by an uncle who saw him only as the heir who must be properly molded now that his father was no longer alive to intervene in the old duke’s plans.

James, who had been more brother than friend.

Oliver moved to the sideboard and poured himself three fingers of whiskey, downing it in one swallow. The burn was welcome, grounding. He poured another, then carried it to his desk.

The desk was mahogany, massive, its surface covered with the correspondence and ledgers that came with being heir to a dukedom. Oliver swept it all aside with one arm, sending papers fluttering to the floor. Let Morrison sort it out. None of it mattered now.

Again, he pulled James’s letter from his pocket and spread it on the cleared surface, reading it by candlelight.

The Earl of Penharrow murdered me.

Oliver had never met Gareth Rhys, the Earl of Penharrow. He was at least ten-years older than him. He knew of him only by reputation; a Welsh peer who rarely came to London, who ran his estates with an iron fist and was rumored to be involved in less-than-legal enterprises. Smuggling, certainly. Slave trading probably. There were whispers of worse things, but whispers were all they were. Until now. Penharrow was wealthy enough and well-connected enough that the whispers never became accusations.

James had been investigating him. Why? The letter didn’t say. Perhaps it had started with that gambling debt, the violence James had witnessed. Perhaps it had spiraled from there. James had always had a strong sense of justice, a need to right wrongs that had made him an excellent officer and, Oliver thought bitterly, a terrible choice for a spy.

There’s a woman, Megan.

Oliver’s jaw tightened. A mistress kept prisoner. It wasn’t uncommon among certain types of men. Those who confused ownership with affection, who saw women as possessions to be locked away. James had thought her important enough to mention in his dying letter, had begged Oliver to free her.

If you can do nothing else, free her.

Oliver would do more than that. He would free her, yes. , but he would also use her. A witness to Penharrow’s crimes. Bait to draw out the Earl from behind his walls of wealth and influence. A tool for vengeance.

He should feel guilty about using an innocent woman as a weapon, but guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not when James’s body was being buried in some Welsh churchyard, far from home, his death written off as an accident.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter.”

Thomas Webb stepped into the study, his posture military-straight despite having been a civilian since his return from Salamanca. Webb had been Oliver’s batman during the war, assigned to attend to an officer’s personal needs, but their relationship had evolved beyond that of master and servant into something closer to equals, forged in the crucible of battle. When Oliver returned to England, he’d brought Webb with him, installing him as head of household security, a position that gave the former sergeant enough prestige to satisfy society while allowing him to remain close.

“My lord? Hastings said you wanted to see me.”

Oliver gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

Webb hesitated—old habits die hard—but complied. He was a compact man, built like a boxer, with graying hair and a face marked by powder burns and old scars. His hands, resting on his knees, bore the calluses of a man who knew his way around both sword and pistol.

“James Hartley is dead,” Oliver said without preamble.

Webb’s expression hardened. He’d known James, had served under him briefly before being reassigned to Oliver. “How?”

“Murdered. Made to look like a riding accident.”

“Bastards.” Webb’s voice was flat, emotionless, but Oliver saw the rage in his eyes. “Who?”

“James told me it was the Earl of Penharrow. A Welsh peer.” Oliver slid James’s letter across the desk. “Read.”

Webb read in silence, his jaw working. When he finished, he looked up, and Oliver saw the same cold calculation in his eyes that had made him such an effective soldier.

“When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. I need time to arrange affairs here to make it look like ordinary business. We’ll travel as surveyors. I’ll use a false name. You’ll be my assistant.”

“Weapons?”

“Everything we can carry without drawing attention. Pistols, knives. I’ll have my saber from the war. We’re not going to Wales to negotiate.”

Webb nodded slowly. “This woman, Megan. You mean to take her?”

“Yes.”

“And if she doesn’t want to come?”

Oliver’s smile was cold. “Then I’ll explain that her choices are limited to accompanying me or remaining Penharrow’s prisoner. I suspect she’ll see reason.”

“And if Penharrow comes after us?”

“I want him to.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “In fact, I’m counting on it. James said the man is untouchable through legal means beyond the English borders. But if we lure him back to England, we can charge him through the magistrates here. You know my pull in the home office.”

Webb stood, squaring his shoulders. “Then I’m with you. James was a good officer. A good man. He deserves better than an unmarked grave and a lie.”

Oliver rose as well, extending his hand. Webb took it, and they shook. Not as master and servant, but as soldiers preparing for war.

“We leave tomorrow before my uncle ascertains my plans,” Oliver said. “Tell no one where we’re going. If anyone asks, we’re inspecting property in the north near our estate in Shropshire. It borders Wales so it won’t raise suspicions.”

“Understood.” Webb moved toward the door, then paused. “My lord? What will you do if we find evidence of worse crimes? James mentioned trafficking.”

Oliver’s expression went very still. “Then I’ll bring his criminal empire down around his ears.”

When Webb left, Oliver returned to his desk and pulled out fresh paper and ink. He had carefully worded missives to write to his steward, his solicitor, his banker. Also to his mistress, the beautiful young widow, Lady Helen Frankton. This was a good reason to break off the arrangement. The young woman was beginning to see a future as his wife, and he wasn’t sure she was the woman he could spend his life with. Mainly because his uncle liked her, and he was sure she fed his uncle reports on him.

 The letter to Helen would be tricky as she was likely to run to his uncle and everything needed to appear normal, routine. No one could suspect that the Marquess of Astor was about to disappear into Wales on a mission of vengeance.

As he wrote, his mind kept returning to that one line in James’s letter.

If you can do nothing else, free her.

Oliver would free her. But first, he would use her to destroy the man who had murdered his closest friend. It wasn’t honorable, perhaps. It certainly wasn’t gentlemanly.

But then, Oliver had left his gentility on the battlefields of Spain, along with his innocence and any illusions about the nobility of mankind.

All he had left was his word, his sword, and his rage.

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