Prologue

At a mere eight years old, Lucy Beaumont did not know much about life, but she knew one thing was certain: her dislike for graveyards. The dreary weather suits the somber mood of the cemetery, Lucy thought as she followed her father to the place where the crowd had started to gather.

She could still vividly remember the last time she had in such a place. It had been a little over a year ago, to say goodbye to mama.

Tears formed in Lucy’s eyes at the thought of her mother, but she quickly wiped them away for fear of her father noticing. Papa did not like it when she cried. Especially when she cried about her. He was not aware of the fact that Lucy had heard his cruel words after her death. She had snuck down to the kitchen for a glass of water but her papa was there with one of the servants so Lucy remained hidden.

He had called her mother selfish and stupid and had also demanded that Lucy never cry about her. He had vowed never to waste a single tear on her and had said that his household should do the same.

It was a lot for a seven-year-old to take in, but her mama had taught Lucy from a very young age to always listen to her papa. So Lucy walked back upstairs and dried her tears. If papa did not want her to cry, she would refrain from crying. That night, Lucy had whispered to whoever was listening, her mother perhaps, that she was sorry for not crying but she was afraid that her father would get angry if she did not comply.

The people at this funeral, Lucy thought now, had clearly made no such promises. People stood with handkerchiefs pressed against their noses, and here and there someone sniffed. Lucy was relieved when papa let go of her hand. She knew that he would not notice her wandering off – he’d only look for her once it was time to leave. As such, Lucy quietly moved to the back of the crowd where she had a good view of the whole group.

She did not know who William Lockhart was but judging by the number of people at his funeral he must have been quite popular. There were nowhere near this many people at her mother’s funeral. It had only been her, her father and a few of their servants. Not even her mother’s parents were there. Lucy was too afraid to ask why they had decided to not attend, but she heard the servants whispering about it afterward. According to them, her father had strictly forbidden them to stay away – both from the funeral and Lucy herself. He had vowed to protect his daughter against anything and everything because he wanted her to grow up to be a proper lady.

Lucy was angry about his choice, even though she was far too young to understand the raging emotions in her heart. That day, she was not only angry at him for preventing her grandparents from seeing her but jealous about the number of people at this stranger’s funeral.

Who was this William Lockhart that deserved so many goodbyes while mama had no one? Stubborn tears formed in Lucy’s eyes again at the thought and she quickly wiped them away.

A soft sound behind her made her jump. Though Lucy’s first instinct was to run away, her curiosity won over, and she ambled in the direction of the sound.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft and nervous. Her question was followed by more sniffles, and by something that sounded a little like a sob. “Who’s there?”

She took another step forward and peeked around the bushes. And then finally, she saw him. A little boy, who was likely her own age, was sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree. Sobs racked his thin body, and he had his fists pressed to his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Lucy asked.

Perhaps it was the concern in her voice or the fact that she was roughly the same age as him, but something made the boy remove his hands from his face and look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and fresh tears pooled in their green depths.

“No… Please go away now!”

Lucy shook her head and took a step towards the boy, who still glared at her with teary eyes. “Who are you?” she said, taking another stubborn step forward and sitting down next to him. “I’m Lucy Beaumont, and you?”

He lifted his chin and put on a brave face. Lucy recognized the expression, as it was one she was used to wearing herself.

“I am Edward Lockhart,” the boy replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

He held a trembling hand out to her, and she shook it, pity building in her heart at once. “Lockhart… That means…”

Edward glanced in the direction of the mourners, and he nodded sadly.

“It’s my father’s funeral, yes.”

Anyone else might have thought him strong and tough for his delivery of the statement, but Lucy recognized his hidden feelings all too well. He was heartbroken.

“I am sorry, Edward. For… for your loss.”

They were the words she could say, words she herself had received after her mother had died, but she did not think they would help. After all, they had not helped her either.

The boy nodded quietly, and the tears that had been pooling in his eyes started to overflow. “I apologize,” he said. He was still trying to be brave, though the tremble in his voice gave him away. “You must think me very weak.”

“No!” Lucy answered quickly, and her hand found his. “Don’t be silly! Crying doesn’t make you weak. My mama… she used to say only the strongest of people allow themselves to cry. It’s good for you, she always said.”

“I just… miss them so much.” His words were a broken whisper, and Lucy held his hand a little tighter.

“I know. I miss my mama too… but she’s up in heaven, watching over me. I’m sure your parents are doing the same.”

Another smile formed on his face, this time a genuine one, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “It helps a little, but I still wish they were here… that I could see them.”

She knew exactly what he meant – she knew it far too well.

“I wish I could see my mama too, Edward… but I know that she would not want me to be sad. She’d want me to remember her, to think of the good memories, the time we spent together. She… she used to tell me stories, and they always had a happy ending. And whenever I get too sad, I think of those stories.”

A smile had formed on her own lips now as she thought about her mother. “I think of those stories when I miss her,” she continued, “and it almost feels like she is right here with me.”

“I…” Edward spoke quietly, his voice hoarse from the tears he had shed. “I used to go riding with my father. And sometimes, Mother danced with me and we’d sing songs together.”

Lucy nodded eagerly. Something inside her truly wanted this boy to feel better. “Exactly, those things… when you think of them, it’ll be like a part of them never left. But…” She smiled gently and rested her head against his shoulder. “But you can cry if you want to. Sometimes that helps too.”

Edward swallowed at this, and Lucy could feel his chest heaving with a soft sob. “Will you stay with me?” he asked. “Please? I don’t want to be alone.” Their fingers tangled together on her lap, and Edward settled his own head against hers. “You don’t have to stay. I mean… if you don’t want to… but I’d like it if you did.”

Lucy looked down at the entangled hands on her lap. Next to her, Edward’s breath had slowed. He was no longer sobbing, even though there were still tears in his voice.

“I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

It was a promise spoken with the sincerity only a child could have – one filled with honesty and kindness, bereft of any expectation.

For an hour, the two sat with their backs against the tree, grateful to have someone with whom they could share and be with in their unhappiness.

Chapter 1

The lightning was close – far too close – and Lucy could feel an icy terror scraping at her bones. She knew this feeling all too well and there was only one person who could put her racing mind at ease when the stormy weather scared her.

“Mama?”

Lucy climbed out of her bed nervously. The floor was cold underneath her bare feet, but she hardly noticed it. She needed to see her mother, and it was this thought that kept her moving forward, scared though she was.

“Mama, where are you?”

The long, dark hallway loomed threateningly in front of her, and she froze. The dark had always terrified her, and with the raging storm outside, her fear was even worse.

The house was quiet – too quiet. She could hear the howling of the wind and the falling of the rain; she could hear nothing but the sounds of the storm. Why was the hallway so excruciatingly long? It worsened her terror, and Lucy swallowed dryly.

“Mama, please…” Though she had hoped for a loud call to leave her lips, her words had come out in a trembling whisper that disappeared into the storm. “Where are you?”

She moved forward hesitantly, step by step, until she finally reached her destination: mama and papa’s bedchambers. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob and when she finally turned it, it creaked in the silence.

Cold.

It was the first thing she registered when the door finally opened.

Icy cold.

Only once her frail body had adapted to the iciness of the room did Lucy take her time to look around.

The normally neat room was in chaos, and she looked at it with wide eyes. Then, her gaze was quickly drawn to a portrait that lay in tatters on the floor.

Lucy knew the portrait all too well. It was of her mother. Papa had commissioned it for her birthday, and the artist had done an exceptional job. Now the bright smile and azure eyes were ripped to shreds. Clothes were strewn over the floor too, and the bed’s coverings were bundled at its foot, as though someone was hurriedly looking for something.

A shiver ran through Lucy’s body, and only then did she turn towards the source of the cold: the balcony. The doors were open, and frosty rain trickled into the room.

Lucy rushed forward, eager to close the doors and stop the cold from entering the house. It was only when her hands touched the handles that she noticed it: a pair of shoes right there on the terrace.

Mama’s shoes.

Not just any shoes… her favorite shoes. She had worn them all day, and she would be very upset if the rain ruined them.

Look over the edge of the balcony.

She was not certain whether the words were whispered by the wind or whether her own mind was telling her what to do, but she moved forward without thinking.

The storm clouded her vision, so she strained her eyes to see. There was something far below. Yes, there it was. Far below the balcony in the garden, Lucy could make out a figure.

She squinted, trying to make sense of it. For a few minutes, her mind was befuddled. But when she realized, it shot through her body like a flash of lightning.

The figure wore mama’s favorite white dress, and its head bent at an impossible angle.

“Mama?” She could only whisper the word as she leaned over the balcony to see better. The figure was still, and all her doubts dissipated instantly. “Mama!” she whimpered.

***

Lucy awoke with a start, screaming, her entire body covered in sweat. She pressed a hand against her racing heart as she sat up in her bed.

The dream was always the same. She took a few deep breaths in a futile attempt to calm down, tears already pooling in her eyes. Recently, the dream had become even more frequent.

The blood in her veins turned to ice. The scream that had left her lips may have awakened her father; he despised it whenever someone disturbed his sleep. She stifled a yawn and reached for the robe that hung haphazardly over the chaise in her room.

Only one thing would help now; a cup of tea.

Anguished thoughts warred in her mind as she made her way to the kitchen. It had been ten long years since her mother’s death, but she could still picture her lying in the garden like a broken doll.

An accident, they had called it. How could her mother have been so careless as to slip and fall over the railing of the balcony? Even if that were a possibility, what would her mother have been doing out on the balcony in that awful weather?

It simply did not make sense.

Another thing that did not make sense was the torn-up portrait. No one had mentioned it, and Lucy herself was far too scared to ask her father about it. No… she had learned long ago that he did not welcome questions, so she had remained quiet about what she had seen.

Still, the portrait troubled her. Who would have gone through the trouble of shredding it into pieces, and more importantly… why? Could it have been her mother, who had grown tired of the false smile she wore in the painting?

And why had the room been in such disarray?

The silence in Lucy’s room was a far cry from the bustling activity in the kitchen when she arrived. Her maid Maria was leaning against a counter with a cup of tea in her hands.

“I made you a spot of tea already, my lady.”

Lucy took the cup with relief and shook her head at the older woman.

“Sometimes I wonder if you are a witch, Maria. How on earth did you know that I would be having a dream again?”

Maria smiled sympathetically and reached over to put a gentle hand on Lucy’s wrist. “I’m no witch, my dear lady. I just know that you have your dreams whenever a storm brews outside, so I was expecting you.”

She looked at Maria earnestly, thinking how far more at ease she felt with the staff than with her own family.

Maria kept her voice light, though the concern was still evident in her eyes. “You will never believe what I heard today. Your chambermaid is in love!”

Lucy took a delicate sip of the warm tea, her eyes wide.

“What? Katherine? With whom on earth could she be in love?”

Maria made a big show of looking at the cook conspiratorially. “With the new stable boy. Ben, I think his name is. The two cannot stop stealing furtive glances at one another.”

Lucy pressed her hand against her heart and smiled. “Oh, that is too precious! I have not met Ben yet, but I will have to make a plan to meet him now. He better not hurt Katherine, or I will have his head.”

The cook laughed jovially at this. They all knew that Lucy was far too kind to even consider having anyone’s head. She could hardly give anyone a stern talking-to.

“That is not the only gossip, my lady.” It was the cook’s gruff voice that sounded now, and Lucy looked at him curiously. “Apparently, young Abigail is expecting. Yes… they believe that the baby will be here by summer!”

Lucy clapped her hands together in excitement. “That is wonderful news! Oh, we will have to make some clothes for the baby, and perhaps a little blanket!”

The cook grinned brightly at her excitement. “Your mother would have had the very same reaction, you know. She would have thought of clothes and blankets too, without a doubt.”

Lucy’s smile faltered. Though the staff in the kitchen had managed to lighten her mood after her awful dream, she missed her mother even more on days like this. When mama was alive, the house used to bustle with activity and warmth. She was the one who introduced Lucy to the kitchen staff and other servants and made sure that she knew they ought to be treated with kindness and respect.

Mama used to laugh with them, and Lucy could still remember the joy that permeated the walls of the house for her presence. Now she hardly remembered what laughter sounded like.

“Oh, Lucy…” Maria looked at her with a tender smile. Maria had become a substitute mother for her, and she appreciated – and loved – the woman more than she could begin to explain.

“Are you excited for the start of the season?”

Lucy scoffed at the question and shook her head firmly. “No, thank you. I am not interested in any of those ridiculous events whatsoever. I have no need to look for a husband to control me.”

Maria lifted a brow at Lucy’s scathing answer, and she sighed. “I apologize, Maria,” Lucy continued. “The dream upset me. And this time of the year, father gets even more ill-tempered than usual.”

“Of course…” Maria sounded sympathetic. “Your mother’s death anniversary is coming up.”

Lucy suspected it was one of the reasons why her dreams had become more frequent. “Did he ever…” Lucy hesitated and shook her head. Surely she could not ask the question that had been weighing on her mind ever since she had been old enough to understand. Yet something in Maria’s sincere eyes made her feel safe.

“Did he what, my dear?”

Lucy sighed. “Did my father ever love mama? Because… I just remember them shouting at each other. I remember mama crying a lot and I…”

Once again, Lucy hesitated. Could she open up about the harsh realities of what she remembered, or was it better to remain quiet about it?

“I remember bruises, Maria,” Lucy said finally. “So many. And I don’t think I understood it when I was young, but somewhere along the way it started making sense and I just knew—” She exhaled sharply, avoiding Maria’s sympathetic eyes. “I just knew where they had come from, and I hated him! And a part of me still hates him because…”

“Is this why you do not favor the season?” Maria’s voice was soft and gentle, and Lucy nodded quickly.

“I decided years ago that I would never marry. I will never give away my independence and power like mother did.”

Despite sounding convincing even to her own ears, Lucy knew how awfully empty her words were. Her father had paraded her mother like a show pony, and now that she was of age it was Lucy’s turn.

He did not care that she despised the events he forced her to attend, nor did he care that she had never expressed a wish to marry. He did not care that every minute of being paraded sickened her, that she hated every second of it, that she hated him.

To her father, she was a mere object, and hatred was far too complex an emotion for her to have. She had no choice but to bear it.

Maria did not respond. She merely looked at her sympathetically. The cook, for his part, placed a plate filled with delicacies in front of her. It was his way of showing care, and Lucy appreciated it more than she could express.

She forced herself to smile as she took a cream puff and brought it to her lips.

She knew that she was beautiful and that people envied her wherever she went. She knew that many a lady in the vicinity had expressed a wish to be Lucy Beaumont.

Sadly, she also knew that all she had said about being independent was a farce. She shared her mother’s fate for she, too, was a prisoner.

Yes, she had a beautiful home and everything that money could buy, but a gilded cage was still only a cage… And if there was one thing Lucy was most certain of, it was that she did not want to be in a cage.

---

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Prologue

Ezra Spencer, Third Earl of Marlborough, preferred to ride in the mornings, even when staying in London. While most of his peers were sleeping off the excesses of the previous night, with most failing to surface before one or two in the afternoon, Ezra found the relative peace of the morns to be preferable to the unrelenting pressure of performing for the Beau Monde.

So far, his day had been almost enjoyable. Sir John Sloane had invited him to view his collection, no doubt thinking that the unreasonably early hour of ten in the morning would encourage the young Duke to decline the visit. Ezra smiled at the memory.

“It seems I misread your nature, my boy,” the crotchety old man had eventually conceded. “I took you to be as foolish as the rake in Hogarth’s paintings. Well,” he paused, “I do like to be wrong from time to time. It keeps one sharp.”

“Perhaps in my youth, Sir John,” he’d replied, his eyes feasting on an exquisite watercolor by Richard Westall. “These days I prefer the company of art to that of people.”

Sir John had made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt, then drawn his attention to a series of portraits sketched by Sir John Mortimor.

Yes, it had been a good morning, and Ezra was almost content with the world. Even here in Hyde Park, which was never truly empty, there was enough space to feel he was back on his estates and far from the pressures of High Society. His favorite spot was close to the Serpentine, near to where the dilapidated remains of the old Cheesecake House still stood, and where there was a rich planting of old trees that felt like a mystical forest. Even now, with the sun climbing to its highest point for the day, there was no sign of another living soul around him.

As he neared the shoreline, he became aware of someone singing. A young woman’s voice, he guessed, with her beautiful tones rising and falling in a folk song that sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite remember.

“Woah, boy,” he murmured to his horse, pulling lightly on the reins to guide Atticus to a standstill. The distant sounds of the city seemed to fade away, and all he could focus on was that beautiful singing.

“The water is wide, I cannot get over

And neither have I wings to fly.

O go and get me some little boat,

To carry o’er my true love and I.

A-down in the meadows the other day,

A-gathering flowers both red and blue,

A-gathering flowers so fine and gay,

I little thought what love could do.”

He patted his horse lightly on the neck. “Can you hear that, too, boy? Or have I finally lost my mind?”

Atticus snorted in response, and Ezra chuckled.

“Well, maybe I am imagining things, my friend, but you have to admit that singing is beautiful. I’d not forgive myself if I left without discovering to whom that voice belongs.”

He swung out his leg and dismounted, and whatever opinion Atticus held on the matter, he chose to keep it to himself, offering no objection as Ezra threw his reins over a nearby branch.

Making his way into the woods, he pushed through the low branches as he moved with as much stealth as he could.

“I put my hand into one soft bush,

Thinking of the sweet flower to find.

I pricked my finger to the bone,

And left the sweet flower to mind.

I leaned my back up against a great oak,

Thinking him a fine trusty tree.

But first he did bend and then he broke,

So did my love prove false to me.”

When he finally beheld the singer, his breath caught. She sat among a patch of bluebells and wildflowers, while leaning against an oak tree, just as in her song, and was staring out over the waters of the Serpentine. She was a slight thing, practically ethereal in appearance, and wearing a thin cotton dress that was little more than a slip. Her hair was unbound, but he could not quite make out the color—dark blonde, light brown perhaps?—for she wore a Spanish-style mantua comb on her head, and a thin white veil cascaded down from it, obscuring the details of her appearance, yet leaving the strong impression of a very beautiful woman.

“Where love is planted, O there it grows,

It buds and blossoms like some rose;

It has a sweet and pleasant smell,

No flow’r on earth can it excel.

Must I be bound, O and he go free!

Must I love one thing that does not love me!

Why should I act such a childish part,

And love a boy that will break my heart.”

He stepped forward with the stealth of an expert hunter, but the divine creature whirled her head around to stare at him as though he’d hailed her. The veil draped over the top half of her face, but a fine pair of pale-pink lips were uncovered, and currently shaped around a delightful gasp of surprise. She was younger than he had imagined, and despite her state of déshabilé, there was nothing of the courtesan about her. She glanced over her shoulder, revealing a flash of red in that tantalizing hair of hers, and in so doing left Ezra with the strong impression of a fawn about to bolt into the woodlands.

For reasons he did not have the time or inclination to study, he did not want her to go.

“Please, don’t let me disturb you, my lady,” said he, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “I mean you no harm; I simply wanted to listen to the end of your song.”

Her head cocked to one side, and he found himself wishing she would remove the veil just so he could see the color of her eyes. He walked toward her slowly, approaching in the same way he would a skittish foal, but she made no move to leave her patch of bluebells.

“Who are you?” he asked. The woman laughed, and it was an ethereal sound, gentle and teasing, that nonetheless struck him like an arrow through the chest.

“I’m the nymph,” she replied, that perfect mouth curving into an innocent smile.

Ezra couldn’t help but smile back.

“The nymph?” he repeated. “Not just a nymph?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “Do you know a great many nymphs, my lord?”

He chuckled at that. “A point to you, my dear Nymph. Is there a reason you have chosen to sing in Hyde Park, of all places?”

The smile turned seductive.

“I was waiting for you.”

He stopped walking toward her, too used to women’s tricks to entice him into marriage to trust the Nymph, no matter how other-worldly she appeared. “For me?”

She laughed again. “Why, who else is here to appreciate my song?”

He looked her up and down, trying to gauge what type of creature he was dealing with. The Nymph, however, grew bored of his appraisal and turned her attention to the bluebells at her bare feet, and began to sing again.

“Whatever magic or trickery this is, it’s working,” Ezra murmured to himself before moving to sit beside her. She didn’t so much as acknowledge him, not even as their shoulders brushed against each other.

“There is a ship sailing on the sea,

She’s loaded deep as deep can be,

But not so deep as in love I am;

I care not if I sink or swim.

The water is wide, I cannot get over,

And I have not the wings to fly,

My love was untrue, but I can’t complain,

Some day I hope new love I’ll find.”

The song came to an end, and the Nymph let out a melancholy sigh.

“Love can be a terrible thing, don’t you think?” she said.

Ezra forced down the painful memories that threatened, just for a moment, to overwhelm him. Memories of beautiful lips turned blue, and a four-poster bed replaced with a silk-lined coffin.

“Yes, it can be terrible,” he replied, “but what is life without a little risk now and again?”

The Nymph turned to look at him, and Ezra met her gaze, their faces only an inch or two apart. He thought—hoped—he heard her breath hitch.

“So, I am not wrong to hope I will find love?” she asked, her tone indicating the genuine nature of her question.

“Never,” he murmured, lifting his hand to lay against the cool skin of her cheek. “It is never wrong to hope for love, not even when it hurts.”

Her lips parted, but whatever words the Nymph was about to say remained unspoken, for desire got the better of Ezra’s good sense, and he kissed her.

For just a moment he felt her tense with shock, but then she melted toward him, her lips parting willingly as his hand buried itself in her hair. She gasped when his tongue entered her mouth, then gave the most delicate moan of pleasure he’d ever heard as she tentatively began to return the kiss.

She’s never done this before! The thought surprised him. He could feel her passion growing with her confidence, and he knew with absolute certainty that if he allowed this to continue, he would be unable to resist her explorations. In another time or place, he would have welcomed such a distraction, but he was damned if he was going to take advantage of a girl—nymph or otherwise—in Hyde Park, of all places, under the midday sun.

With effort, he pulled away from the kiss, running his hand back across the Nymph’s cheek as he did so. She was staring at him from behind the veil, her lips still parted as she took several rapid breaths.

Then, she shook her head as though she needed to dislodge an unwelcome thought, and practically jumped to her feet.

“Someone is coming,” she said, staring out beyond the woods. “I must go.”

Ezra frowned; he could not hear any indication of people approaching, whether by foot, horse, or carriage. He was about to say as much when the Nymph leaned down over him, bringing her mouth close to his ear.

“Will you find me again?” she asked.

“Find you? You mean here?”

She laughed and danced away from him.

“Not here. You will find me in the picture,” she replied.

Ezra clambered up to his feet, but the Nymph was already several feet away from him. “What picture?” he asked, starting after her. His foot connected with a root of the oak tree, and he fell back to his knees. He heard the Nymph’s laughter again, echoing about him, but when he looked up, she was nowhere to be seen.

“Find me in the painting!” she called out and, thus, she was gone.

“Nymph?” Ezra called out, with only the woodland birds responding to him. He got to his feet slowly, listening for the snap of a twig or the crunch of dead leaves to give away her location, but there was nothing. It was as if she had never existed, as though the entire experience had been nothing but a dream.

Ezra rubbed at his jaw as he tried to work out whether he was amused or annoyed by the whole experience. Then he remembered the way her tongue had shyly danced with his own, and he shivered.

Atticus had not moved from his spot at the edge of the woodland, and his expression was one of an animal that had seen everything and was bored by it all. Ezra patted the horse affectionately on the neck.

“Well, that was an enjoyable albeit strange interlude, old boy,” he told the horse. “What did you make of the Nymph?”

Atticus made no response. Ezra nodded.

“Very wise, my friend. Very wise, indeed. Well, we’d better get back home before my sister emerges from her bedroom. For some unknown reason I promised to take her for ices today, and if I am late, she will ring a peal over my head, no doubt about it.”

The horse snorted. Ezra laughed. “No, I think it best we keep this encounter a secret, don’t you? There’s enough speculation about my sanity as it is. No need to add to it.”

He mounted Atticus and settled into the saddle, allowing himself a glance back at the woodland, and to the old Cheesecake House in the distance.

Yes, all in all, it had been a good morning, he decided. Now all he had to do was work out what the girl had meant about finding her in a painting.

***

Cecilia Wallace, her veil discarded as she slipped on an old walking gown and buttoned up the front, peered around the Cheesecake House’s wall and watched him leave. She quickly pinned up her hair and tucked any stray wisps under the edges of her straw bonnet, confident she had erased all trace of the alluring nymph and replaced her with a nameless young woman of the middling classes.

“He’ll find the painting, I am sure of it,” she said to no one in particular. “Perhaps he’ll even fall in love with her.”

She touched her fingers to her lips, where the memory of his kiss still lingered, and the desire to have his mouth explore hers more thoroughly throbbed with unfulfilled longing.

She pulled her hand away abruptly, giving her head a small shake as she did so.

“Don’t be so foolish,” she admonished herself before crouching down to pull on her well-worn, practical boots. “All that matters is the painting. That’s all you want from him.”

She could taste her own lies as she emerged from the woodland, stepping out onto one of the walking paths when there were no witnesses to see where she had come from. It would not do to have anyone connect the mysterious nymph with a plainly dressed girl, especially not if they recognized who she really was.

“All that matters is the painting,” she repeated, and set off in the direction of home at a brisk pace, resisting all urges to turn around and see if she could catch just one final glimpse of the man whose kiss still weighed heavily on her mouth.

 

Chapter One

Lady Matilda Spencer threw open the door to her brother’s study without warning, bringing a small whirlwind of fashionable clothing and excited chatter along with her.

“Don’t be silly, Anderson, you don’t have to announce me to my own sibling! Ezra, tell Anderson he’s being a stuffy old bore, and that I don’t need to be announced when I want to come into your study.”

Ezra looked up over his newspaper at his long-suffering butler hovering in the doorway.

“Anderson, I have it on good authority that you are a stuffy old bore, and that Tilly may do as she pleases, whenever she pleases,” he said. “Since I have no hope of restraining her impulses, I beg that you not upset yourself in the futile attempt of making her behave with propriety.”

The butler, who had long ago perfected the art of hiding all emotion, visibly struggled to keep from smiling.

“See, Anderson?” declared Matilda as she undid the ribbon of her bonnet. “Ezra likes it when I come to spend some time with him.”

“I don’t think I would go quite that far,” said Ezra thoughtfully. “Perhaps, Anderson, we should look into getting Tilly a bell to wear about her neck. That way, you would not need to waste your time trying to announce her presence, and I will have ample opportunity to hide.”

“Are bells fashionable, Ezra?” asked his sister as she discarded her bonnet on the floor and began to pull at her gloves. “I don’t believe I have seen anyone wearing them, but fashions begin so quickly, I swear it exhausts me trying to keep up.”

“They most certainly are,” he replied solemnly. “Anderson, instruct Tilly’s maid to find a bell for her to wear. Something delicate in gold, I think, but loud enough to announce her presence through two walls and a sturdy door.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” replied the butler, bowing himself out of the room before he could betray his position in the household with something so uncouth as a snort of laughter. Ezra grinned; baiting Anderson had been a hobby of his since his salad days, but he’d never come close to succeeding until his sister’s return from living with their aunt and her permanent establishment in his household.

Matilda had narrowed her eyes and was staring at him. “You were teasing me again, weren’t you?”

He folded up his newspaper and placed it on the table beside him. “You wound me, Tilly! When have I ever been so tyrannical a big brother as to indulge in teasing you?”

“You tease me constantly, and you know it,” she replied without any rancor. “Why, you even instructed all the servants to keep calling me Tilly, as though I were still in the nursery, and not one of them addresses me as Lady Matilda unless we have company. Even the scullery maids call me Tilly!”

“Do you want us all to start calling you Lady Matilda?”

His sister tried to look stern, but her face quickly collapsed into a rueful grin. She settled for flinging one of her gloves in his general direction, although it fell far short of its mark.

“No, I would not, as well you know! I hate being introduced that way, for it just reminds me of Aunt Ursula’s constant criticism.” She raised her chin and pinched her lips tight in her favorite impression of their proud relative. “Lady Matilda, one must always have perfect deportment, not slouch like a common milkmaid. Lady Matilda, one must remain suitably aloof from the servants, not embroil them in faradiddles. Lady Matilda, one must perfect an air of fashionable ennui, not laugh like a horse.”

“Do I want to know about the faradiddles?” Ezra asked.

Matilda winced. “I think it’s best that you don’t.”

“Agreed,” sighed Ezra, “although you must enlighten me, Dear Heart; how exactly does a horse laugh, anyway? Atticus, for example, has the finest sense of humor I have ever known in man or beast, and yet I cannot ever recall him laughing.”

“According to Aunt Ursula, horses laugh like me,” said Matilda, a scowl once again settling over her features as she threw herself into the wingback chair opposite him. “Why our parents thought she was a suitable guardian for me, I will never know. I would have been much happier living with you.”

“I doubt it,” said Ezra. His sister looked at him in confusion for a moment, but realization quickly dawned.

“Oh, you mean because you were in mourning for Lizzie? Well, I suppose it’s understandable that you wouldn’t have wanted to add my care to your burdens, but I would have much preferred to have been there to take care of you. Still, it’s all in the past and I’m here now, so that’s what matters the most.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment, even as the memory of his dead wife knifed at his heart.

“I wouldn’t have done that to you, Tilly, although I am forever moved by your continued love and devotion to me.”

“Well, Aunt Ursula was never going to bring me to London despite my being practically on the shelf, so I really had no choice but to be nice to you,” she said cheerfully. “Oh, that reminds me, I have the most wonderful lead on a new painting for you!”

Ezra groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to interfere with my collection again, Dear Heart? I love you, but not to the exclusion of reason!”

“No, dear Brother of mine, this is not like last time at all! I swear it! And I didn’t even hand over as much as a trinket to pay for the information on this occasion!”

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her warily.

“Just information?”

“I promise.”

“And you have not paid for it, promised anything for it, or made the acquaintance of any men of dubious character to obtain it?”

“Only if you consider the Duke of Clarence to be so!”

Ezra widened his eyes. “Tilly, I mean this with the greatest of respect to the Crown, but yes, I absolutely consider him to be a man of exceedingly dubious character and hold the same opinion for all his brothers, Prinny included. Please, tell me that Clarence has not been pawing at you, Dear Heart. I would be compelled to shoot him, and I’m fairly certain that murdering a royal duke is treason.”

His sister rubbed at her nose. “He did take a liking to me, but I promise I am not some wide-eyed debutante unable to throw off his advances.”

“What did you do?”

Matilda began examining her fingernails, her face the picture of innocence. “I laughed.”

Ezra blinked. “You laughed?”

She glanced at him, her roguish smile showing she was very well pleased with herself. “Indeed, I did, just the way Aunt Ursula always told me not to.”

Ezra felt a grin creeping across his face. “You laughed like a horse, did you?”

She leaned forward in her chair, and he found himself mimicking her action, as though a great secret were about to be revealed.

“Oh, no, Ezra,” she whispered, “it was far, far worse than that. I snorted.”

They stared at each over for a moment, then both began to laugh at the same time.

“You little minx! You did not!”

“I swear to you, I did! And it was a loud, toothy kind of snort as well! I think everyone in the parlor must have heard me, and it would have been mortifying were it anyone else!”

Ezra wiped a hand across his eye. “Good lord, how did Clarence react?”

“I don’t think I could have repulsed him more if I had dribbled,” replied his sister cheerfully. “And believe me, I was prepared to dribble if necessary.”

“I do not doubt it,” he replied, chuckling at the mental image her words had conjured.

“But all of that aside, he did confirm the rumor going about the ton, which no doubt you would have heard already if you attended more than the absolute minimum number of parties you can get away with.”

“If I ever learn how to snort toothily to extract myself from awkward encounters, then perhaps I will attend more of them,” he replied. “Now, tell me this piece of information of yours before you get distracted again.”

His sister leaned forward again. “A new, unknown work by Jacob Wallace has been found, and what’s more, it is magical!”

There was a moment of silence between them. Matilda was practically bouncing with excitement in her chair, waiting for his reaction.

“A new Wallace painting?”

“Exactly!”

“And it’s magical?”

“I know! How thrilling!”

Ezra shook his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry, Tilly, but that’s impossible.”

His sister’s expression turned mulish. “No, it’s not, people have seen her!”

He blinked. “Seen who?”

“The Nymph, of course! She’s appeared in several parks and gardens around London, asking people to find her in the painting.”

The memory of the girl he’d met by the Serpentine filled his senses for a moment, and it felt as if the world suddenly went off balance.

“There’s a nymph running around London kissing strangers?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended.

His sister threw up her hands in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ezra, she’s a nymph! A fairy! I said people had seen her, not that they had been taking liberties. I wish you would not tease me when I am trying to be of service.”

So, she has not kissed anyone but me! Ezra was uncomfortable with how satisfied the realization made him feel.

“Are you even listening to me?” demanded Matilda. Ezra looked up to see she was pouting, and his heart went out to her. From long experience, he knew Tilly could be flighty, distracted, and prone to exaggeration, but she was also his dearest friend and greatest defender.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I was just distracted by the idea that there could be a lost Wallace. He died, what, two years ago now? I reviewed the inventory of his work, and it was comprehensive. I am merely intrigued by the idea that there might be more works of his out there that remain unaccounted for.”

Matilda rolled her eyes, but a smile was tugging at the edges of her mouth. “Trust you to focus on the least interesting part of the tale. Of course, there are more works. Wallace was an artist, after all. No doubt it was a private commission or some such thing that the buyer did not want to be made public. If the rumors are true, then it would explain a lot.”

“Because it’s magical?” he asked, unable to keep the teasing note from his voice.

“Mock me all you like, dear Brother, but at least five men and a few women of the ton claim to have seen her, always at midday and always in some kind of wooded place. She is dressed all in white, with a long veil that obscures her face, and her song is like a siren calling to them. She runs away if they get too close, calling out that they must find her in her painting before disappearing before their very eyes.”

“Magical indeed,” replied Ezra. The girl had not disappeared for him, he thought, it was more that he’d lost sight of her when he tripped on that blasted tree root. “But it’s impossible to follow your train of thought, my dear, even at the best of times. Explain if you will, what has the nymph got to do with Wallace’s painting?”

His sister’s expression turned triumphant. “That is the information I have for you! Clarence was full of the story of this beautiful nymph—with some extremely improper details, I should add—when Sir Thomas Hope commented that he wondered whether the nymph was the same one who appears in a recently discovered Wallace painting he’d viewed.”

The name of a fellow art collector caught Ezra’s attention despite himself. “Sir Thomas Hope has seen the painting?”

Matilda nodded eagerly. “Yes, he said the original owner had died, and so the executor of the estate brought it to him for a valuation. He immediately recognized it as a Wallace and instantly snatched the opportunity to display it for a select group of art lovers. He is in negotiations right now with the owner to do just that, so naturally, I secured us an invitation to the viewing. You are welcome.”

“Why would anyone take a Wallace to Sir Thomas Hope for authentication?” mused Ezra. “He might collect art, but he’s far from an expert in any medium. This whole thing smells strongly of a hum to me.”

“You are insufferable!” cried his sister as she got to her feet. “I have half a mind to attend the viewing without you as punishment!”

Ezra grinned at her outrage, which only provoked her to use some language that would definitely incur the wrath of Aunt Ursula if she heard it before she began to stalk out of the room without so much as a glance at the bonnet and gloves she’d casually discarded upon her arrival.

“Now, now, Tilly! Don’t be like that! I’m touched that you know the name of my favorite artist and that you put up with the attention of both Clarence and Hope to secure me an invitation. You’re a treasure of a sister, Dear Heart. An absolute treasure.”

Matilda paused at the door to the study and turned her head to face him.

“Of course, I am a treasure, no one could ask for a better sister than me,” she declared, her eyes just daring him to contradict her. When he did not rise to the bait, she relaxed her stance just a little. “Very well, you may accompany me to the viewing, if only so I can have the satisfaction of hearing you admit you are wrong.”

“A rare treat indeed,” he replied solemnly, and Matilda burst out laughing.

“You are a beast of a brother, and I should throttle you in your sleep. Instead, I will console myself with the knowledge that the owner of the painting did not consider you to be an expert on Wallace despite your collection, and that the nymph has not appeared to you, begging you to find her. Perhaps you are not the connoisseur of art you fancy yourself to be, Ezra! Think about that!”

She exited the room with a dramatic flounce but did not stoop so low as to actually slam the door. Ezra rose and went to his desk where a pile of ignored invitations had steadily grown since the beginning of the Season. On the top was a gilt-edged card from Sir John Hope, cordially inviting him to the Unveiling of An Unknown Masterpiece. He ran his fingers across the edge, thinking back to the kiss from the unknown woman at the edge of the Serpentine.

“Who are you really, my beautiful nymph?” he asked the silent room. “And what kind of game are you playing?”

 

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