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FALCON’S LAIR
Ruth Ryan Langan
For Tom—my free spirit
PROLOGUE
ENGLAND, 1870
“He’s summoned theAmerican.” The voice was little more than a whisper.
The tower room was illuminated by a single candle. The two who met there in secret dared not light a fire, for fear of being discovered. With each word, their breath plumed on the frosty air.
“Why?”
“He suspects something and thinks his brilliant friend will come to his aid.”
“Then we must stop him.”
There was a momentary pause. “Are you suggesting…?”
The hooded head nodded. The silence seemed to stretch out until it was broken by an ominous murmur. “One more makes no difference. We must do whatever is necessary. No one will be allowed to alter our plans.”
A chilling gust of wind snuffed the candle, leaving the two in darkness.
“Did you feel that? It seemed…unnatural.”
Cold hands clasped cold hands. A voice said soothingly, “Just a draft in the tower. It changes nothing. The American must be eliminated.”
1
It was rainingagain. Felicity Andrews shivered inside her heavy cloak. Ever since she’d boarded the ship in Boston Harbor, the skies had been weeping. But here in England it seemed an icy, bitter downpour that seeped through to her very bones.
The journey had been long and difficult, and she felt weary beyond belief. But the letter from Lord Falcon, her father’s oldest and dearest friend, had left her little choice. Though it had been an invitation, it seemed more a summons. He bade his friend Rob to come quickly—before it was too late.
She mulled over the carefully worded letter, as she had many times since its arrival. Oliver, Lord Falcon, had hinted at something dark and mysterious. Something too painful for him to put into words.
Felicity wondered what the old man would think when he discovered that his friend’s daughter had come in his stead.
Her head was still spinning from all the details she’d been forced to see to. Selling her furniture. Cataloging all her father’s books and letters. By far the most difficult had been letting go of the flat she’d shared with her father before his death. A flat that held a lifetime of memories.
What now, she wondered, now that she’d cut herself adrift from the only life she’d ever known, in Boston, and was about to embark on a life of uncertainty in a foreign land? She wouldn’t think of that. She would think only about the end of this tedious journey. The thought of a hot meal and a cozy bed lifted her spirits.
Despite her best intentions, her lids fluttered while she fantasized about the things she would see while she was here in England. The wild, rocky countryside. The small, picturesque villages. The lovely people her father had always spoken so kindly about…
The coach, racing across the windswept moors, suddenly rocked and swayed, jolting her into wakefulness, causing her to reach out a hand to steady herself. Felicity glanced out the small window. Her heart almost stopped.
Through the swirling mist she could make out a horse and a cloaked rider, on a collision course with her coach. As she watched, a jagged flash of lightning sliced the darkness, illuminating the rider’s handsome, brooding features. Though it was but a single moment, Felicity felt as though the face had been seared into her soul. He had coal-black hair, tossed wildly by wind and rain; dark eyes, deep and fathomless, filled with an eternity of pain; a mouth twisted in anger, as though cursing the heavens. Then darkness closed around him once more. Thunder rumbled across the heavens with all the force of a cannon.
Jolted into action, Felicity rapped on the roof of the carriage, crying out a warning to the driver. But the sounds of the storm and the clatter of the coach’s wheels drowned out her voice.
She felt a moment of panic as she braced herself for impact. Instead, the coach continued along its perilous course. And in the next flash of lightning, she blinked in astonishment. The rider had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. The only sign of life was a falcon, its wings beating furiously against the buffeting winds.
She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her little cry of alarm. She must be more weary than she realized. Her mind was playing tricks. Annoyed at herself, she huddled in the corner of the coach until she heard a shout from the driver.
The pace of the carriage slowed perceptibly. As she peered out the window, the ancient towers of Falcon’s Lair loomed in the mist. Most of the castle was in darkness. Only a few candles, outlined in windows, flickered in welcome.
The coach halted at the foot of wide stone steps. The driver tossed Felicity’s trunks down to a waiting servant, then helped her to alight.