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In vain I seek to calm my mind,

And reason’s aid implore;

For still, alas! I find

Thy image haunts me more.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

DECEMBER 8, 1821, LONDON

S ebastian drummed his fingers against the arm of his padded chair, doing his best to keep his voice low in respect for their host’s home.

He and Lorenzo had arrived in England a mere ten days ago, along with their Italian friends, Marco and Angelo Scott, after Marco had recently revealed himself to be heir to an English baron.

Sebastian supposed he and Lorenzo should move into the duke’s townhouse now that Marco had wed the day before, but the thought of being in such proximity to his older brother simply squashed any inclination to be considerate to the Scott household.

So he and Lorenzo remained, likely outstaying their welcome, especially when they continued to quarrel with such regularity. Drawing a deep breath, he restated his position in Italian. There were footmen in the breakfast room beyond the connecting doors to be mindful of.

“You must be patient, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo spun on his heel to face him with a glower, throwing out his long, lean arms in an effusive gesture that spoke to his dwindling patience. Not that Lorenzo was patient at the best of times.

The truth was that they were at a deadlock.

Lorenzo had managed to convince Sebastian to come to London, but now that he was here, he had no desire to meet with the woman who had possession of the painting that Lorenzo was so frantic to view.

His friend’s obsession to uncover the truth about his ancestor had reached new heights in the past month, matched only by Sebastian’s increasing reluctance to approach the widow.

“We have been here an eternity! Our friend has met a maiden and married, while you continue to delay!”

An eternity was a hyperbole. Only ten days, but Lorenzo was agitated, so Sebastian suppressed a grimace of guilt.

Their lucrative partnership was straining as his friend was growing ever more frustrated, but …

Sebastian growled, mindful of the servants in the next room as he replied in his accented Italian.

“The time is not right.”

Lorenzo sucked in air deeply, his exasperation written in every line of his tall form.

“The time is never right! What is it about this … this … this bit of muslin that has you hiding under the stairs like a schoolboy?”

Sebastian straightened in warning. Harriet was no bit of muslin, and he would not stand for any insult of her in his presence.

“Watch how you act!”

Lorenzo shook his head vehemently, his rapid Italian rising in volume to Sebastian’s embarrassment as he glanced toward the doors. Grabbing a spindly chair from the corner, Lorenzo dragged it over to plop down with an earnest expression.

“No! Not this time, Sebastian! You keep delaying, and it is unlike you to behave so cowardly. We need that painting if I ? —”

Lorenzo broke off, his expression that of defeat. Sebastian knew it was momentary, and his friend would not let this matter go. But how was he to explain the torment of losing the woman he loved? How long it had taken for him to carve out a sliver of peace in Florence?

He did not wish to recall the dark days when he had left London in a heartbroken rage so many years earlier. When he had run from his past—from what could not be because he had been powerless to affect the rigid constraints of polite society in pursuit of his heart’s desire.

If not for Florence, Sebastian well believed he would have just kept running until he had found the edge of the earth and dived into the infinite abyss. His return to London was as difficult as he had anticipated. Perhaps more so.

On the other hand, his conscience remonstrated that he had made a commitment to Lorenzo to assist him with the painting, and despite his troubles, he could acknowledge that he had been dragging his feet.

“You are right. My apologies, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo, wordless but fuming, scraped his chair back abruptly so that it teetered on its back legs. Sebastian hastily reached out to grab it as his friend stormed out, his footsteps sounding loudly as he retreated down the hall.

With regret, Sebastian took to his feet and made for the breakfast room, worried about the potential scene that had unfolded to those within earshot, and to his disappointment, he found Marco sipping on a cup of coffee.

Stalking over to the sideboard and rifling around, Sebastian turned to take a seat at the table with a laden plate.

Marco refrained from commenting, watching him with a sympathetic gaze.

Sebastian stared at his plate but did not pick up his fork or commence eating.

“You overheard our argument.”

It was not a question. Marco said nothing.

Sebastian leaned back to raise his arms and comb through his mane of hair, his elbows bracketing his head as he exhaled deeply.

“I know you were not the same after that English girl died of consumption. It makes me wonder how you have found the courage—” He stopped, overcome by a rush of memories.

Returning to England had been hard. Sebastian rubbed his jaw and peered out at the garden, unseeing as he sorted through the cascade of memories England had resurrected.

“How do you find the courage after your heart has been so utterly crushed beyond repair?”

Marco weighed his words carefully, his face thoughtful in Sebastian’s peripheral vision.

“What choice do we have, my friend? We cannot give up on the future when it has so much more to offer than the past.”

“You believe I should stop delaying?”

“I think you have an opportunity to close the door on an old chapter. As painful as it might be, it must be done if you are to … resuscitate.”

Resuscitate . An interesting choice of words. The notion that Sebastian was being brought back to life. Or perhaps it was just his heart resuming its beating. Painful, but necessary to walk a path to the future.

Sebastian nodded, exhaling a puff of air as he finally reached a decision and announced, “Then the time has arrived to pay a call on Lady Slight.”

Harriet was shown into the study by a servant she did not recognize to find Lord Bertram Hargreaves scribbling at his desk with a single-minded focus on the page in front of him.

She seized the opportunity to shore up her courage, suppressing the wave of butterflies that had set flight as the door shut behind her with a decisive click.

It was difficult to credit that she was here. That she was going to have the conversation she was about to broach. Her palms were damp, and her heart pounding against her ribs like a frightened bird beating against the bars of a cage, but she was determined to make this stand.

Moving forward with as much insolent dignity as she could muster, Harriet took a seat, perching gracefully on the edge and fixing her skirts.

“Father,” she greeted, feigning confidence she did not feel. Showing weakness would only make her mission more … more.

Lord Hargreaves raised his head, his cold ice-blue eyes skewering her with disdain, before putting aside his quill and leaning back in his swivel chair of wood and leather.

Harriet smiled benignly, feeling rather violated at how his attention had flickered briefly over her bosom as if to critique the demure modesty of her bodice.

She wished to fidget, but she and her Mentor had discussed in detail how to attend this meeting, and it was imperative she not display any sign of nerves.

It was just that she felt so deeply invested in the outcome.

“Harriet.”

He was dressed in a black coat, with a black stock tied about his snowy linen.

His auburn hair was still thick, his face frigidly handsome.

Only the white at his temples revealed his age.

She had always thought that if Lucifer had an earthly form, he would resemble her ageless father, both in form and temperament.

Which made it all the more incredible that she was here to discuss … well, anything.

“I wish to inquire about Belinda Cooper.”

His jaw tightened just a fraction, barely perceptible, but Harriet always made a point of studying him closely to ensure she did not inadvertently unleash the devil within.

“That is an inappropriate subject.”

“I am an inappropriate widow.”

Harriet nearly winced. Impudence was not quite the direction her Mentor had advised her to take, but now that the words were said, she must proceed without apology.

Hesitation would only make this discussion worse, so she stared back at him, two pairs of matching ice-blue eyes attempting to freeze the object of their view, until finally, her father blinked and looked away.

Harriet resumed breathing, a surge of triumph making her mildly giddy at the small victory.

“Belinda is none of your concern.”

“Nevertheless, you have caused quite the stir of gossip. It is not the done thing to cast off your mistress without honoring your agreements.”

A thin smile spread across his face as he stared out the window, and Harriet’s heart sank. She suspected that her little victory had been mere subterfuge, her father reeling her in to deliver a sharp cut. Her stomach tensed in anticipation of what cards he may hold up his sleeve.

“My dear, there comes a time when a beautiful woman has passed her prime …” His leer found hers, and Harriet nearly flinched at the malevolence in their icy depths. “Belinda’s time has passed as, apparently, has yours.”

His gaze swept over her in contempt, a silent rebuke over the attire she now wore. Harriet shifted uncomfortably. She knew she was still elegant, Signora Ricci being an artiste of women’s wardrobes, but no longer … alluring … since she had opted for a different presentation to the world.