Chapter One

Chapter One

London, 1817

The fanciful cupola-topped pavilion languished in desolation on the frozen marshes south of the Thames, a gaudy ruin, with a gray February sleet blowing against its rusty, fake turrets and boarded-up windows. Some said the place was haunted. Others claimed it was cursed. All that His Lordship’s unassuming little man-of-business knew, however, was that if his glamorous patron did not soon arrive, he was sure to catch his death in this weather.

Clutching his umbrella over his head, Charles Beecham, Esquire, stood wrapped in his brown wool greatcoat, his beaver hat pulled low over his receding hairline, and a look of abject misery on his face. He sneezed abruptly into his handkerchief.

“God bless ye.” Mr. Dalloway, standing nearby, slid him a greasy grin.

“Thank you,” Charles clipped out before turning away from the unkempt property agent with a respectable humph.

Dalloway was the opposition in this matter, determined to bilk His Lordship out of three thousand pounds for the dubious privilege of owning the godforsaken place. Charles meant to advise his patron against the purchase in the strongest possible terms, not the least because it would fall to him to explain the mad expenditure to old Lady Ironsides. Stealing another discreet glance at his fob watch, he pursed his lips. Late.

Alas, his staid life as the Strathmore family’s solicitor had become alarmingly interesting since His Lordship’s return from his high adventures on the seven seas and elsewhere.

Though barely thirty, the viscount had done the sorts of things Charles preferred to read about from the safety