Chapter 1

London, 1820

Frowning at the grandfather clock across from her in the study, Elizabeth Webber briefly thought she was imagining the sound of a heavy knock on her door. She eased back in her chair, sliding the thin pile of papers in front of her into a neat stack before stuffing them into one of the desk drawers. She glanced at the clock again, wondering who would have the nerve to knock at half past midnight, knowing all the hecklers had given up hours ago and were off resting so they could continue tomorrow.

The knocking grew louder, fiercer, angrier as she made her way out of the study, pulling the doors to the room closed behind her. She adjusted her flimsy shawl around her, clutching it tightly in one hand as she smoothed out the wrinkled material of her dress with the other. Her lips twitched when she noticed the dark stain, she assumed from tea, on the cream-colored bodice. She imagined her curls were wild and messy, matching her state of dress, and was embarrassed to greet whoever dare knock on her door at such an hour.

"Just a second," she called out, her hands shaking as she thought about the possibilities for such a late visit. It was the middle of the week, so surely it wasn't some misplaced drunkard, only leaving one option: bad news. "Please, just a second."

She gripped the knob tightly and pulled the door open, allowing the late night air to pour into the foyer. "May I help you?" she asked curtly, her eyes roaming over the dark figure standing on her stoop.

"I've been sent on behalf of Jeffrey Webber," he replied, his voice ragged and tired.

She drew her hands to her chest, her heart racing with the possibilities. "Did something happen?" she asked worriedly, stepping aside and ushering him in. "Is he still a-alive?" Her eyes darted around the empty streets, before closing the door and flicking the lock behind her.

Swallowing hard, she turned to face the late night visitor, who seemed oblivious to her presence. He looked relaxed in wrinkled trousers and a loose fitting white shirt as if he'd been lounging around in his own home. One of his boots was untied and his hair looked tangled as if it hadn't been brushed in days. His eyes swept around the foyer, sneaking a glance into the darkened parlor room, then down the hall that led to the study before settling on her face.

Her stomached tightened and she glanced around hurriedly, looking for a weapon if need be and silently scolding herself for letting this man into her house without so much as asking his name.

Her father would be ashamed.

"Relax," he said softly, as she stepped towards the table near the door, her hand reaching for the letter opener. "I'm not here to hurt you, Elizabeth."

Her name rolled off his tongue, almost intimately, and she found herself grabbing the letter opener regardless of his promise. "Why are you here?"

"I've been sent on behalf of Jeffrey Webber," he repeated roughly, clearing his throat as he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Do you think we could sit? I've had a long trip."

"From where?" she asked curiously, arching an eyebrow, the letter opener clutched tightly in her hand anticipating his pounce.

"Italy," he replied, his eyes dropping to the weapon in her hand. "I assure you that is not necessary."

"Must have taken you a while," she murmured, pointing down the hallway towards the study with the sharp end of the opener.

"Days," he said, walking in front of her as if he knew where he was going.

She knew she should have led him or sent him to the parlor room, but neither felt like highly appropriate actions. However, what was appropriate about this? She'd just let some strange man into her home, simply because he'd mentioned her father's name, showing that she was past the point of desperation. He came to a stop outside the study, stepped to the side and waited for her to open the door.

"Sometimes it sticks," she murmured, her cheeks flushing as she fumbled awkwardly with the doorknob. "Father kept saying he was going to have it fixed, but then…"

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded, stepping back to allow him to push the doors open easily as if he'd done it a thousand times, furthering her embarrassment. As she led him into the room, he reached around her, jerking the letter opener from her hand. "Unnecessary."

She bit her tongue, only because she knew so little about the man, and hurried around to the other side of the desk, not only eager to put distance between them, but to remind him whose home he was in. "Sit," she said, pointing at the chair across from her when he lingered close to the door.

Nodding, he closed the door behind him, slowly making his way across the room. Once he sat down, he reached out and placed the letter opener on the edge of the desk, his eyes watching her intently. They were the deepest blue she'd ever seen, and she felt as if she should look away when he stared at her, but she couldn't.

Her manners told her she should offer him something to drink, maybe even food, but it was the middle of the night, and she was past the point of being civil. "How do you know my father?" she asked, noting the way his dark cerulean eyes changed almost instantly, becoming soft and bright, maybe even nostalgic.

"I owe him," he replied, his hands placed leisurely on the chair arms.

"For?"

"That doesn't pertain to this at all."

"This?" she inquired, taking in the features of his face. His jaw line was hard and tight, making it impossible to tell if he felt anything other than annoyance and his pursed lips only added to his obvious disdain. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, as well as dark circles beneath them, leaving no doubt to whether he'd had a long trip or not.

"You and I," he replied mysteriously, drawing out each word.

"I think you've been misinformed on the possibility of there being a you and I," she stated firmly, not liking the way he looked at her, the only visible feature of any kindness.

Amusement flickered across his face as he leaned forward, a thick lock of blonde hair falling into his eyes. Had she been closer to him, she would have fought the urge to shove the offending strands from his face, and she found herself thankful there was a desk between them. He didn't seem like the type of man who'd take to being touched in such a way – or worse, maybe he was – not that she was the type of woman who would do something so intimate.

"Perhaps I was misinformed," he murmured quietly, scratching a finger over his brow. "You have a suitor?"

"You come on behalf of my father and ask me that," she replied, narrowing her eyes and refusing to show her humiliation. Her father had undoubtedly informed this man of the situation – that was if he had really heard from Jeffrey and wasn't someone seeking the latest gossip. Either way he knew how Elizabeth was all but being turned out into the streets, and that no man would be coming to request her hand anytime soon.

"Then nothing has changed, meaning that for the time being there is a you and I," he informed her smugly, though she might have thought he was as annoyed as she with such a possibility.

What exactly was this possibility? Her father wasn't the type of man to align her with a suitor, expecting her to comply with his wishes. Jeffrey knew she'd never agree, or maybe prison had taken a toll on him in more ways than she expected. Had he really sent a request for marriage as some kind of favor?

"How do you know my father?" she asked again.

"I owe him a favor," he repeated. "And he's called it in."

"You've spoken to him?" she asked, suddenly caring less about how exactly the man knew her father.

"Yes."

"And he's well, I presume?" Her heart tightened in her chest, waiting to hear the worst possible news, but thankfully he nodded and eased her worries. "Did he ask about me?"

"Yes."

"Do you always give such informative answers?" she asked in annoyance, shuffling more papers around on her desk, desperate to do something with her hands.

"Yes," he replied, his lip twitching in amusement as she glared at him. "You have a lot of questions."

"As anyone in my position would," she pointed out, holding his stare across the desk.

She'd always had a knack for reading people's face; knowing their thoughts and feelings, sometimes even illnesses. Her father always said his daughter had the greatest ability to look at someone and know if they were truly ill and how to cure them. She blamed him for her medical knowledge, and it was a joke between them to see who could outwit the other – behind closed doors, of course. His patients would have keeled over at the thought of his daughter giving out diagnosis, but oh how he loved having her do it.

She shivered as his eyes turned dark again, sinister even, and she hated not being able to read his face.

Once again, her father would be ashamed, and twice in one night. She was proving herself capable of great things in his absence, wasn't she?

"I imagine things have been hard for you," he said slowly, as if it pained him to give her any kind of sympathy.

"I've managed," she murmured quietly, not wanting to be judged by him or anyone else for that matter.

"Barely, or so I've heard," he replied, his words hurting her more than he could have realized. Or perhaps he did and just didn't care.

Elizabeth had been running her house all alone for several months now; the cooking, the cleaning, the books, and she wouldn't let someone downplay her abilities as if they were nothing. The staff had left days after her father's arrest, all at her dismissal simply because she refused to trust them when people probed with their questions. She had no butler or maid, had fired the cook who had been with her since she was a child, and spent the last several months almost entirely alone.

She hadn't minded really, except at night, when she would think about how different things used to be. How she used to play at her father's feet in the study as a child, eventually becoming an assistant of sorts as a young woman, and even when she did have suitors lining the streets, nothing really changed about her, and perhaps that was why she was still alone.

Jeffrey always called his daughter headstrong, determined to the point of destruction, and sometimes ice cold, but only to those she met and never to him. She couldn't help it that men wanted a woman who acted as a trophy, beautiful and silent on their arm, just as she couldn't help it that she had so many things to say. Her father always told her she made men feel inferior and that such an attitude would never get her married off, but he quickly followed it up by saying he'd never change her.

Though sometimes she believed that was a lie meant to comfort her.

She always joked that she'd be alone, a spinster or a midwife, one extreme on opposite sides of the spectrum. She knew her father wanted nothing more than for her to be married off, and she'd had her chance, but it quickly fell apart, leading them to their current situation.

"Not that it's any of your business, Mr…" She felt awkward and rude not knowing his name, and she wouldn't usually have cared, but he was someone to her father, and that was the quickest way to earn her respect.

"Morgan," he filled in, arching an eyebrow and waiting her cruel reply. "Jason Morgan."

"Mr. Morgan," she started again, the familiarity of his name spinning around in her head as she tried frantically to remember where she'd heard it. "It is none of your business as to how I keep my house, and I have no idea why you are here, or if it's even for my father…Either way I doubt it was so you could come into my home and insult me."

"Well, it will be my business once you're keeping my house," he corrected her, amusement flickered across his face again, giving her the urge to scream.

"What exactly are you trying to imply, Mr. Morgan?" she asked, folding her trembling hands into her lap and settling back into her chair.

"Your father wrote me," he replied, speaking slowly as if he wasn't sure she'd comprehend him. "He explained that he's awaiting trial for murder and that his only child has been left to fend for herself."

"Are you here as a suitor?" she asked wryly, her eyes widening at the possibilities.

He was handsome, that much was true, and he had nice hands; long, slender fingers and skin that looked as smooth as leather. She wondered what his palms would feel like against her and found herself blushing at such a thought. His clothes left something to be desired for, but a few hours with a tailor would easily improve his state of dress. And while his personality did leave something to be desired for, she supposed she could overlook it.

"Not a willing one," he replied annoyed, her eyes darkening at his tone. "Forgive me, but I am not here for us to be wed."

"Oh," she murmured surprised. "I see."

"Your father warned such wouldn't be possible – that you wouldn't allow it."

"He does know me well," she agreed, letting out a shaky breath, and scolding herself for even thinking such a thing could occur.

After all, her reputation surely preceded her, and if it hadn't, Mr. Morgan would manage to hear his fill before getting out of London. Her father's trial was a hot topic in all the presses; in the papers, at the markets, and among the high society gossipers.

"I must admit, I'm relieved," he replied, raking his hand through his hair, his eyes still fixed on hers. "I don't wish to force a woman into anything, especially a marriage."

"But you are here to force me into something?"

"Perhaps."

"What makes you think I will comply?"

"Do you have any other choice?"

"Do you think I will allow some stranger to back me into a corner?"

"I think you've backed yourself into one," he muttered, rolling his eyes at her and causing her to scowl.

"So, how exactly are you going to save me?" she asked, leaning over the desk. "How much is it going to cost my father?"

"Your father wishes for you to leave London," he replied, tapping a slender finger on the arm of the chair. "And as I already stated, I am here on behalf of a favor I owe Jeffrey."

"Leave London?" she asked quietly, dropping her eyes to her lap and shaking her head. This had been her home her entire life, and while her father had told her when he was arrested that it would be best if she left, she refused. It was terrible enough that her father was paying for someone else's mistake. "That's impossible."

"You have no reason to stay," he said dryly, challenging her with a look when she started to protest. "You have a woman who takes pity on you, coming to your house once a week in exchange for pounds you can't afford to pay her. She brings your food, your letters, and any other supplies you need because you are too terrified to leave the house. She's either too loyal for her own good or waiting to hear the kind of gossip that will get her name in the presses."

"Everyone in town is watching you closely, waiting for you to slip up and confirm that your father is a murderer. Not to mention that once this goes to trial, you will be called as a witness, and you will put your father away for murder."

She swallowed hard, her eyes brimming with tears as he hit her with one truth after the other. "You don't know-"

"I know you would never lie – that Jeffrey Webber didn't raise his daughter to do such a thing."

"What makes you so sure he's guilty?"

"Is he innocent?"

"I know as much – or as little – as you do."

"The truth is in your eyes," he said, grinning as if he saw something that no one else did.

"I think you should go," she hissed, getting up in such a hurry that she nearly knocked her chair to the floor. "You've come into my father's home and insulted his only daughter, in more ways than necessary. I do not need you to-"

"He wrote me and asked me to come," he cut in, getting up from the chair as she crossed the room to the doors, showing him out. "Otherwise, I would be at my estate in Italy, enjoying the stars and the spring air, and not in your dreadful company."

"I imagine with a wench on your arm also," she said, her hands on his hips as she stood next to the doors, silently asking him to go.

"Is there any other way to go about life?" he asked, smirking and though she wasn't sure, he may have even winked.

He disgusted her.

"You don't care to know what your father asked of me?"

She stiffened as he stepped closer, his body just inches from her, and if she allowed herself to, she would be able to smell him, that clean, soapiness that wrapped around a real man.

Not that she knew much about it really – just that they smelled very nice. Or so she imagined.

"He wants me to leave London," she replied, refusing to look up at him. "You're supposed to play a part in that."

"If you leave, you can have the life you wished to have had here," he said, stepping closer, and she knew he wouldn't have stopped if she hadn't tipped her head back to meet his gaze.

"What life is that?"

"A family?"

"Perhaps."

"Suitors."

She grunted at his statement. "Who would wish to marry Jeffrey Webber's daughter?"

"Someone, or so you hope," he replied, his mouth turning into a crooked grin. She couldn't decide if he was laughing with her or at her, and seeing as she refused to laugh, she had no choice but to be offended.

"You expect me to leave London and allow you to take me…"

"To Italy."

"Italy?" she asked, her lips parting in genuine surprise.

"He wrote that you've always wanted to visit, so why not start a new life there?"

"Because I cannot."

"Because you're afraid."

Her jaw ticked as she pushed passed him, hurrying into the hall towards the foyer. "I cannot abandon my father when he is awaiting trial. What will everyone think if I disappear?"

"That he's guilty."

"Exactly," she growled, fumbling with the lock on the front door as Mr. Morgan came up behind her, his hand holding the door closed as she tried to open it.

"Or they will think you are dead," he murmured, his voice low and husky, his lips tickling the outer shell of her ear. "No one is going to look for you, Elizabeth, and you know this."

"You are mad," she spat, turning around to find herself pressed up against the door, the man not allowing her a way out.

"Or you can stay here where eventually, the few people you've called your friends, will run you out of the city themselves," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded envelope. "The letter from your father."

"You're allowing me to read it?"

"It's surely the only way to settle this stubbornness of yours," he answered, dropping his hands from the door and giving her a chance to step away from him.

She froze briefly, smoothing her fingertips over her father's familiar script on the front of the envelope, her eyes welling up with tears. "Oh, how I miss him," she murmured, mostly to herself.

"He misses you as well," Mr. Morgan said, ushering her aside and opening the front door. "I have an assistant who has traveled with me. In the letter, you'll find permission for us to stay here for the evening and until…" His voice trailed off as he hurried outside, and she stepped onto the stoop, the first time she'd been outside in days, and watched him make his way towards the two carriages parked on the street.

A curtain moved in a house across the way, and she dipped back inside the second she realized she was being watched, knowing that word would spread tomorrow that Elizabeth Webber was allowing strange men into her home. They would call her a whore, bought and paid for, and Mr. Morgan was right; she would be run out of town before the end of the month.

"Mr. Damien Spinelli," Mr. Morgan said, upon reentering the house and motioning towards the small, frail man at his side.

He was dressed as poorly, a rumpled stable boy's hat on his head. It was hardly the appropriate dress for an assistant, but Mr. Morgan clearly didn't mind.

"Fair Elizabeth, it is an honor to meet the daughter of such a famous and beloved medicine man," the assistant muttered awkwardly, and she couldn't help but grin sincerely.

"He would be pleased to know that people are still referring to him as such," she replied, as he lowered two trunks to the floor.

She looked outside to see the house across the street, knowing she was still being watched. "If this is it, I'll show you to-"

"No need," Mr. Morgan interrupted, motioning for Mr. Spinelli to pick up the trunks. "If I remember correctly, the room at the top of the stairs would be yours and the guests are at the far end, near where the maid sleeps, or slept rather."

"How do you-"

"Come, Spinelli," he ordered, ushering him towards the stairs and pausing at the bottom to give Elizabeth a long look. "Read the letter. I expect you to comply with your father's wishes by tomorrow morning. Once you do, we'll leave for Italy as soon as possible."

"And if I do not?"

He arched an eyebrow, grunting as if she had no other choice. "Well, Elizabeth, I suppose we'll have to work through our differences."