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The gods favor the bold.

OVID

Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal.

brAMNOR, WEST SUSSEX

MARCH 1811

On a Wednesday afternoon in the village of Bramnor, one does not expect much excitement beyond sugared gingerbread and tea.

I had settled into a quiet afternoon, absorbed in the latest copy of Archaeologia when the steady clip-clop of hooves interrupted my thoughts.

Molly answered the door swiftly, and moments later, muted voices reached me from the hallway.

A startled cry was followed by heels clattering against the floor as Molly ran past the drawing room and rattled the door handle to Father’s study. My obsession with antiquities lay waiting on the desk as I strained to hear.

“Sir! Sir! A message about Daniel,” Molly’s strident voice echoed throughout the parsonage.

The mention of my missing brother brought a fire to my veins.

For the past eight months, we had searched high and low for him, his last letter sent from Portsmouth instead of the London address.

I rushed to the study at the back of the parsonage overlooking a small garden where Father claimed he needed perfect quiet and peace to finish his sermons.

By the time I reached the door, it was locked. He always locked the door when drafting a sermon, or whenever he felt morose.

“Let me in, Father. I must know what has happened,” I demanded after I jiggled the handle. Molly, her brown hair hidden beneath her cap and her eyes wide, backed away to return to her work. “I heard you received a letter.”

No answer.

I rapped until my knuckles hurt. “Father! Please.”

Finally, he opened the door, his thin features wan and the wire-rimmed spectacles slipping down his long nose. His hair, a white halo, appeared mussed and his cravat lopsided. He thrust the letter into my hands where a bold scrawl from our barrister made me flinch.

“There is nothing, Bridget. Nothing to tell us of my son.”

I regret to inform you that Daniel remains missing.

My heart plummeted at the matter-of-fact language.

My younger brother, at one and twenty, had been pressed by the Royal Navy.

We had not received a single communication during the past eight months.

Was he lost at sea? Dead in battle with Napoleon’s fleets?

Or... had he stirred up trouble at another gaming hell while on liberty from his duties?

I scarcely knew what to think. Two years prior, he had been forced by Father to study at seminary in Cambridge.

A futile task for the wildest member of the Littleton family.

“I need a moment alone, Bridget. This is but another dead end and I haven’t the heart for much more disappointment.” How weary, nay—how broken—Father sounded as he pushed up his spectacles. His eyes welled and tears spilled down his cheeks.

The letter in my hand brought a heaviness to my chest, but I was not so willing to cave in to defeat. “Send for a Bow Street runner instead of a barrister. You cannot abandon him so readily, can you?”

Father sucked in a loud breath at my suggestion.

“I daresay I have drained all available funds in our search for him. We have employed so many men in London and I have no more money beyond providing for our necessities. My son is beyond my reach and has been for several years. He repeatedly refused my counsel and is now in some predicament of his own making. Until he repents of his errors, there is nothing else I can do but pray and wait for his return. You cannot save him either, my girl. I must instead focus on my parishioners and finish my sermon. Any day the new viscount will arrive to take over his estate, and he will expect to see his vicar at work. I cannot let my duties slide.”

Your duty is also to your family, I wanted to protest. Not to the new viscount. Not to the parishioners who clamored for his attention.

But I didn’t say anything, crumpling the note in my palm as Father motioned for me to exit his sanctuary. He shut the door with a decided click. And locked it again, creating a solid barrier between us as he often did when grieving.

Numb, I backed away even though I craved some comfort, some assurance that all would be well.

After retreating to the drawing room, I sank into my chair and reached for the antiquities journal.

Daniel and I used to pore over them in the evenings.

Somehow, it made me feel closer to him since he had taught me the joy of the ancient world, adding to my education in ways that a girl’s finishing school never could.

Molly cast me a sympathetic glance as she hurried past to the kitchen to prepare afternoon tea. I had no appetite for treacle or any other sweets.

Reading the fine print of the journal proved futile with my vision now blurred with tears. At four and twenty years of age and most certainly on the shelf, I felt very alone and useless within the stuffy parsonage.

After Mother’s death from scarlet fever eight years ago, I had raised my brother as my own. I’d promised her I would look after him.

And I had failed. Terribly.

Blinking furiously, I resigned myself to further silence with only our housekeeper, Mrs. Herriot, and Molly to keep me company. A curious section of the journal published by the Society of Antiquaries drew my attention as I dashed at my eyes with the back of my hand.

A Call for Learned Submissions

The Society of Antiquaries of London cordially invites all enthusiasts of antiquity to submit their research, observations, and discoveries concerning the ancient history, monuments, and artifacts of Britain and other lands. A grand prize of ￡50 will be awarded...

When I was five and ten, I had found Roman coins near the now-deceased viscount’s estate, only two miles north of the parsonage.

On many occasions, I accompanied my father to visit the former lord, who had passed away two months ago.

Despite being a melancholic man, he had chuckled at my obsession with historical discoveries, patting my arm in dismissal as if I were his basset hound.

My collection of coins remained tucked within a handkerchief in my dresser, much like my dreams shelved for another day.

Daniel had suggested that I write to the Society of Antiquaries and the Dilettanti in hopes of stirring their excitement regarding the find.

The society never bothered to answer, and the secretary of the Dilettanti sent a clipped reply, admonishing me to confine my activities to embroidery.

I pushed aside the paper just as Mrs. Herriot, dressed in severe black with her white frilly cap, entered the drawing room with Molly following behind carrying a tray of tea.

“Good heavens!” She stopped abruptly. “Is that Miss Perry running down the path toward us?”

I perked at the mention of my dearest friend, who was the same age as Daniel.

Rising from my seat, I glanced out the window and knew something must be amiss.

When she burst into the drawing room moments later, her chest heaving, she pushed back her straw bonnet and loose gold curls, so different from my red frizz, tumbled onto her shoulders.

With her gray gown splattered at the hem and her slippers covered in dirt, she held up a hand to stop Mrs. Herriot from inviting her for tea.

“Oh, Bridget, do call for the vicar. Father has found a demon in his field!”

“A demon?” I repeated slowly while Mrs. Herriot snorted.

Abigail nodded, her cheeks flushed pink. “Yes, and Papa is quite beside himself. He swears it is a terrible omen, especially since—since the last harvest...”

She faltered but I knew what she meant. The previous harvest proved miserable for the entire valley, and as a result of mounting debts, Abigail and her father might have no choice but to leave for the factories in the coming year, like so many other families who had abandoned the valley.

“I daresay the vicar won’t want to be disturbed.” Mrs. Herriot sniffed as she poured the tea. Ever a stickler for propriety, she guarded my father’s study hours well.

My friend cast me a stricken look, silently begging for my intervention.

Ever since her mother passed three years ago from childbirth complications, Abigail ran the Perry household by herself as the only child.

Just as I did with my absent-minded father, too immersed in his theological studies to pay much attention to me.

We were more like sisters, doing everything we could together.

“Tell me more,” I demanded.

“Horns, Bridget,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “I saw them myself.” She pointed in the direction of the Perry farm, a short walk from the parsonage. “Devil horns protruding from the fairest face you can imagine!”

Goose pimples flared across my skin at my friend’s declaration. “I daresay I need a change of scenery and Father remains indisposed. Let me gather my shawl and we shall battle this monster together.” I took my friend’s hand when she frowned and gave it a squeeze.

She exhaled as I drew her away from the drawing room. “I’m ever so grateful, Bridget. I can’t imagine what Papa will do. He’s been so worried, stewing over his finances and the farm. Now this...”

I blew out a long breath, eager to escape the confines of the parsonage and head outside into nature, away from the weight of my family’s concerns.

I would rather confront a demon in the field than the frustration roiling within me at my father’s distance and my brother’s disappearance.

Mr. Lewis Perry, in his excitement, quite forgot himself, and his muddy boots encroached on the hem of my oatmeal-hued muslin gown while Abigail and I knelt on the damp ground.

With trembling fingers, I brushed away the crumbling dirt his plow had shaken loose and inspected the hole at the edge of the field next to Hawthorn Abbey.