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Chapter One

The black unacre, a street north of Covent Garden Here, so close to the narrow lanes and crooked ti but still Drunken quarrels tumbled out from packed taverns onto the streets The deep ru of the poor The soprano cas whining and children crying

Ross Sandford, Marquess of Trevane, Vane to his friends and eneuished the candle in the lantern hanging froht, ahis heart And yet the need to rouse a flicker of emotion in his lifeless chest had drawn hierous part of town

Dressed in black, Vane opened the door and stepped down to the pave his coat, he jerked his head to his coachman, Wickett

“Wait here Twenty minutes is all I need”

That would be enough tih tih his veins

Wickett stared at the fog-drenched street and shook his head “Ten ered cove in the district will be out on the hunt tonight”

Vane knew that Why else would he have coilistic skills? Pity the fool who thought his

“Strange, I do not recall asking for your opinion”

“If you wanted a si and Duck” From atop his box, Wickett inclined his head respectfully “You wanted a man who isn’t afraid to take a shot A ood as a French e your shirt so your sister won’t notice the blood, who can tie a cravat—”

“Yes, yes, Wickett You have made your point”

“Then as a man who’s survived these streets and has a need to protect his master, take heed Nohome a dead man”

Vane inhaled deeply as a flash of excite the answer to the questions plaguing his waking thoughts, and those disturbing his dreams, too Had Estelle Darcy survived the shipwreck? Was she out there so? Did she ever think of him? Had she cared for him at all?