Table of Contents

       Cover

      Praise

       Title Page

      About the Authors

      Dear Reader

       Dedication

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Copyright

       Chapter One

       December, 1817. Steadley Manor, Bedfordshire.

      ‘As I am holding a pistol, sir, and it is pointed directly at your heart, I advise you to stop exactly where you are! ‘

      Gray stopped. But not because he was in the least daunted by the threat of having a pistol pointed at him. The cavernous entrance hall in which he was standing was in darkness, and the ghostly white figure at the top of the wide staircase was shadowy at best. Ergo, if Gray could not see the woman with any degree of clarity—a youngish woman by the youthful sound of her voice—then he very much doubted she could see him, either—let alone have a pistol pointed directly at his heart, as she claimed so dramatically. Which was not to say the chit was not in possession of a pistol, only that her aim, if she should choose to pull the trigger, would be far from accurate.

      Having spent all day in his curricle, travelling from London to Steadley Manor, his estate in Bedfordshire—something he had realised, as it had begun snowing several hours ago, had not been the wisest of decisions for mid-December!—night had completely drawn in by the time Gray finally arrived. He had been less than pleased at being unable to find either groom or stableboy to attend to his weary horses. Nor, having seen to the stabling of his horses himself, a butler or footman to greet him once he had ascended the dozen steps up to the oak door fronting the house. Neither had he found candle and tinder on the table just inside that door once he had let himself in, leaving him no choice but to try to find his way in the semi-darkness.

      Travelling to his estate in Bedfordshire had been something that Gray had been avoiding since he had come into its inheritance on the death of his older brother Perry some two and a half years ago, but to now arrive and find himself held at pistol-point—an event far too reminiscent of one that had occurred several weeks earlier, and in which a man had died—was beyond irritating. It was infuriating!

      Too infuriating, after such a long and unpleasant day of travelling, to be borne a moment longer!

      ‘I told you to stop, sir!’ Amelia warned desperately, as after the briefest of pauses the man below began to stride purposefully—ominously!—across the hallway and began ascending the staircase towards her. ‘I will be forced to shoot you if you do not stop, sir.’ Her voice rose as the man did not so much as hesitate but continued to take the stairs two at a time. Each step bringing him ever closer to where Amelia stood at the top of that wide staircase.

      White teeth gleamed up at her in the darkness in a parody of a grin. ‘A word of advice, sweeting—never threaten a man with a loaded