Without indulging much thought, he sought the attention of an employee. “I’d like to purchase that brooch.”
“Aphrodite?” the middle-aged man asked.
Rafe nearly smiled. Of course it was Aphrodite. He’d always been drawn to depictions of the goddess, though he couldn’t exactly say why. “Yes.”
The man withdrew it from the case with a smile. “What a lovely gift. I’ll wrap it up for you.”
Rafe asked the price and paid the man. It wasn’t a gift. In fact, he didn’t even know why he was buying it.
Because you can.
Perhaps that was it. He was a man of considerable means now. To be able to walk into this new arcade, built specifically for Society’s most prestigious, and not be regarded as an interloper was an achievement.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t satisfied. Perhaps he never would be.
The attendant returned with the brooch wrapped in a box. Rafe tucked it into his coat and left the shop.
Frustration and disappointment warred within him as he made his way back to Piccadilly. He couldn’t help but look toward Hatchard’s, as if he’d see her waiting for him outside. She wasn’t. The depth of his emotions was unsettling. He’d been amusing himself with her, or so he’d thought.
Hell, he’d let his guard down spectacularly. He almost never did that, with two distinct exceptions: his sister and Eliza. And both of them were gone from his life, proof positive that he should never let people close.
There were reasons he held himself apart. Self-protection. Unworthiness. Keeping others safe. He was a risk that shouldn’t be taken.
He was broken.
It was good she hadn’t come. Good for him, but even better for her.
That the discontent he typically carried was now magnified troubled him, but the sensation would fade. She’d been a welcome distraction, and now it was time to let her go. It should be simple. He’d become a master of letting things—people—go. A sharp, quick press on his chest told him otherwise.
Perhaps she’d been more than a distraction.
Chapter 1
June 1819
Mayfair
The library was nearly complete.
Rafe Blackwell, or Raphael Bowles as he was now known, surveyed the massive room, which was the second largest in his grand new house on Upper Brook Street. Only the ballroom was bigger. He could probably fit the single-room flat he’d lived in with his sister and their “uncle” when they’d been children in East London into the ballroom at least eight times over.
Two footmen carried in boxes of books and set them on a long, rectangular table, which was covered with a cloth to protect the surface. Such consideration was once odd to Rafe. Until four years ago, he’d never owned a table worth covering. Before that, he hadn’t owned all that many tables.
And he’d never owned this many books. He thanked the footmen, and they departed. Rafe went to one of the boxes and looked inside. So many books.
He immediately thought of Mrs. Dazzling—books always brought her to mind. Not just because he’d met her at Hatchard’s, but because the last time he’d seen her had been that day in Paternoster Row.
He’d considered finding her. It wouldn’t be difficult as she was out this Season.
He didn’t want to.
That wasn’t precisely true. It was best if he didn’t.
Besides, he expected she was married by now, or would be before the Season ended. She was far too intelligent, charming, and beautiful to last long on Society’s Marriage Mart. How he would have hated to participate in such a show.
He couldn’t help wondering if he might have. If his life had gone differently. His parents had died in a fire when he was five. He knew very little about them other than that they’d taught him to read, his father had given him a pony, and they’d loved him. The pony suggested some measure of wealth, but Rafe had never known the truth. Their nurse—his and his younger sister’s—had rescued them from the fire and delivered them to her brother, who’d taken them to London. When Rafe had asked “Uncle” Edgar where he was from, the man always shrugged and said it didn’t matter. What mattered was where he was going.
Always look forward.
Rafe had done just that, for it had been far preferable to living in the present, which had often been a horrible existence of hunger, shame, and desperation. Used by Edgar to steal and swindle, Rafe had grown up on the streets of East London, as far away from pony rides and loving parents as one could get.
But now that he’d arrived at his destination, the posh elegance and security of Mayfair, Rafe was consumed with looking back. Because nearly a week ago, he’d remembered something that could finally illuminate his origins. On the day his younger sister was married, she’d received a coral necklace as a gift. That necklace reminded them of one their mother had worn.
Seeing the necklace on Selina had loosened a memory stuck in the recesses of Rafe’s mind. He distinctly recalled sitting in his mother’s lap, touching that necklace and looking at a folly nearby. They’d been picnicking on the edge of a lake in the shadow of the folly. Hell, he hadn’t even known what a folly was until Beatrix had explained.
Beatrix, whom Selina had met at boarding school after Rafe had sent her there at the age of eleven to protect her from the ever-increasing dangers of their life in East London, had given Selina the necklace. As the bastard daughter of a duke, Beatrix had enjoyed a luxurious childhood until her mother, the duke’s mistress, had died. As a child, she’d visited an estate with a folly and so had been able to describe it—a fake temple or other sort of building situated on an estate as a decoration or entertainment. Apparently, some folly owners actually paid hermits to live in them. Rafe would never understand the bloody rich.
“Sir?” Rafe’s butler, a smooth, silver-haired man of around fifty with a wealth of experience and outstanding references, stood just inside the library.
“Yes?”
“Lady Rockbourne and Mrs. Sheffield are here to see you. They are in the blue room.”
Beatrix and Selina.
“Thank you, Glover.” Rafe had arranged for guests to always meet him in the large sitting room that looked out to the garden. It was an elegantly decorated space with just the right amount of intimidating opulence and welcoming warmth. Or so he hoped.
Rafe moved past the butler and made his way to the blue room. Beatrix perched on a settee in the center seating area while Selina paced near the massive fireplace edged in gilt and surmounted by a wide mirror in a Baroque style.
That his sister was wearing a path over his new Aubusson carpet gave him a moment’s concern—not for the carpet, but for whatever was driving her nervous movements. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you both—newlyweds that you are.” Selina had married the Honorable Harry Sheffield, a Bow Street constable and second son of an earl, a week earlier, and Beatrix had wed the Viscount Rockbourne just three days ago.
Selina stopped pacing and faced him, her hands clasped in front of her. “We have news. Rather, Beatrix has news.”
Beatrix blinked, her pale lashes sweeping over her hazel eyes. “Yesterday I went to Tom’s cousin’s for a visit. We picked up a pair of kittens for Regan.” Tom was her new husband and Regan was her four-year-old stepdaughter. “While we were at Sutton Park, we had a picnic near a lake.”