A/N: I am definitely no expert in the Regency Era (or history at all). I've read a lot, and done some basic research, but I fully expect there will be factual errors of one kind or another — please excuse them, and know they are those of inexperience. Hopefully, this will be fun…
Prologue
The sun shone bright and cheerful, which seemed so strange when everything was still so dark and sad inside her. She clung tightly to Sam's big hand, tangible proof of her own reality, as he pointed at the colourful flowers and told her their names. She wanted her mama instead, but didn't say so; she knew that mama and papa were both gone now, gone away forever to live together in the clouds, without her.
It isn't fair, her child's mind cried. Papa's friend is nice, but he isn't mine.
Her woeful thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses trotting and the clatter of carriage wheels. The noises made her jump, and tug at the bottom of Sam's breeches with a trembling hand. She'd always been afraid of horses — they were just so big — and since Sam had sat her down and gently explained that her mama and papa had died in a carriage accident, the sound of them made her queasy and afraid.
Sam swung her easily into his arms, understanding, and patted her back gently.
"It's all right," he said. He always kept his big voice quiet when he talked to her, and it made her feel safe. "It's just our guest arriving. Will you stay with me and help me greet him?"
She considered this carefully, a four-year-old waif with the gravity of an eighty-year-old woman, then nodded solemnly. Sam smiled, and turned so they could both watch the carriage approach up the sweeping drive.
Raymond saw them waiting when he stepped out of the carriage, and the picture made him smile — the gruff old man and the tiny girl.
"Ah, young Reddington," Sam Scott exclaimed, reaching out with his free arm to shake hands. "Good travels, I hope?"
"Pleasant enough, my lord, thank you," he replied politely. In truth, he hated to sit for so long, stuck in the stuffy confines of a carriage. But the trip had been uneventful, and that was worth a fair amount.
Elizabeth stared at the newcomer, entranced — the sun glinted on his rough waves of hair, making them shine like gold. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before; it was just so pretty that she longed to touch it, her small hand starting to reach out. Then, she met the stranger's eyes and jerked it back in embarrassment.
"Elizabeth, this is my friend, Raymond Reddington, heir to the Earl of Blackwood." Elizabeth's eyes widened as she attempted to digest this mouthful. "Reddington, this is my ward, Miss Elizabeth Milton," Sam continued. "Her parents were the Viscount and Lady Milton," he added in an undertone.
Understanding flashed in Reddington's face, then he bowed with great solemnity. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Milton," he said, with grave politeness.
She smiled at him suddenly, and it felt like a little burst of light.
"Hello," she answered shyly. "My lord Red– Reddy– Ren–" She paused, puzzling over the unfamiliar syllables. "RED," she said finally, in some satisfaction, a word she knew well.
"Reddington," Sam corrected, slowly and clearly, and she got pinker.
But the newcomer just smiled back at her, open and friendly. "That's all right, sir," he said cheerfully. "We're going to be good friends; Miss Milton can call me Red if she likes."
"And I'm Lizzy, really," she said, giving this lovely new person the nickname her mama had given her.
Sam laughed then, pleased with the two of them. "I can see there's no point lecturing you two on etiquette," he said. "Come in, then, Reddington, and get settled."
Once inside, he put Elizabeth down and patted her gently on the rear. "Go find your nurse now," he said. "But you may have your tea with us, if you like."
She offered Raymond a small wave and trotted off obediently, a small shadow in black bombazine.
It was actually a few days before Raymond encountered Elizabeth again — she having apparently slept through tea that first day. Sam had kept him busy since then, out on the estate, learning the ins and outs of management that his own father couldn't be bothered to teach him.
He'd watched as his father steadfastly ignored their own holdings, drinking his life away in solitude since the death of his lady. As a result, Raymond burned with a fierce determination to undo the damage and restore Blackwood. As soon as he was finished with his education and had some means of his own, he'd written to an old friend of his father's — Samuel Scott, the Marquess of Blanchford — to appeal for help. In generosity and friendship, Sam had invited him for a visit, promising to teach everything he could.
He was in the study, looking for a treatise on planting that Sam recommended, when he saw her, curled in the corner with an enormous book open in her lap. He crouched down next to her with a smile.
"Well then, Miss Lizzy," he said in a friendly way. "What are you reading so intently this morning?"
She tipped the book so he could see the inside — it was a book of fables. "I can't read yet," she confided seriously. "But my mama used to read me the stories, and if I look at the pictures, I can almost remember them."
His heart went out to her, even his brash twenty-four-year-old self caught by such sweet sadness. He remembered losing his own mama, and how he had longed to hold fast to every memory. He sat down on the floor beside her, concerns of planting and fertilizing forgotten. He put an arm around her and pulled the book over to share.
"I miss my mother, too," he said softly. "Would it be all right if I read you a story?"
Her face turned up to look at him, surprised pleasure lighting her small face. "I would like that very much," she said. "Would you really?"
"Which one is your favourite?" he asked.
She turned the pages and pointed, and he started in. His voice was soft and rumbly — like a bear might sound, she thought — and she hung eagerly on every word. He only had time for one, he said, but when he was done, he gave her a little squeeze with his arm, and she felt ever so much better.
He hunted her up most days after that, to read another story from the book, or to tell her one that he had invented to try and make her laugh. He enjoyed her quiet company and the simple task, a rest from the intensity of the work with Sam. He found it oddly rewarding to gift a period of happiness to another lonely soul.
That was when Elizabeth fell in love for the first time, giving her heart away easily to the golden stranger who told her stories, and helped her feel normal again without really trying.
Chapter One
Elizabeth fidgeted impatiently as Sally finished lacing her gown.
"There," Sally said, brushing out the skirts one last time with satisfaction. "It's a lovely gown, Miss, although I'm not sure her ladyship will approve of the colour."
"Luckily," Elizabeth returned evenly, "it isn't up to her."
She didn't really want to go out; didn't care about the expectations of Society, or those of her aunt. But she had made a promise.
Promised Papa that she wouldn't stay in mourning.
Promised that she would listen to Aunt June.
Promised that she would try to find happiness.
Sally hovered anxiously. "Are you certain you don't want me to do more with your hair, Miss? It will only take a moment to heat the curling tongs, I could–"
"It's fine as it is, Sally, thank you." She was tired of it all already.
"Yes, Miss," Sally said, subdued. She hesitated, then picked up a small white box from the dressing table and held it out. "This was delivered for you earlier, Miss."
Elizabeth took the box, curiosity raised by her maid's reluctant tone. Inside was a small cluster of blush pink peonies, with an artfully penned note.
For luck, your first night among the lions.
Your beauty is a light that will always shine through.
It wasn't signed, but she recognized the hand easily enough — and who else knew of her trepidation and reluctance? She smiled, tracing the edge of one bloom lightly.
"Will you pin these in my hair, please, Sally — just at the back, there?" She gestured vaguely.
Her maid took the posey and busied herself fastening them neatly above Elizabeth's coiled knot of hair. "From young Mister Keen, I suppose," she said, with a disapproving sniff. "'E's got no business sending you flowers, Miss — and you know her ladyship won't like it."
Elizabeth picked up her reticule and turned around with a detached, remote look. "Mister Keen has been a good friend to me," she said coolly. "And it isn't really your place to say, is it?"
"No, Miss," Sally answered immediately, downcast and shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Miss."
Elizabeth sighed — she couldn't stand hurting anyone's feelings, least of all this rosy-cheeked girl who took such good care of her.
"Never mind, Sally," she said, wrapping a quick arm around the other girl. "Thank you for all your help."
Sally beamed. "You look just beautiful, Miss, even done up just simple-like. The fancy won't know what hit 'em."
Elizabeth took a deep, stabilizing breath and smiled back. "I hope you're right," she said.
And she did, she truly did, for while Aunt June would be busy trying to find a husband for her recalcitrant, perilously-close-to-on-the-shelf niece, Elizabeth would be looking for something else entirely.
Elizabeth would be looking for a murderer.
Raymond drummed his fingers absently against his thigh as his coach wended its way slowly through the crowded London streets, a nervous habit that he had never managed to get rid of. He pulled the letters out of his greatcoat pocket once more — the first from his friend and mentor Samuel Scott, asking for help; the second from Scott's man of affairs, notifying Raymond of Sam's death.
He once again cursed the late spring storms that had delayed the letters' delivery. He was still tired from the journey home, which landed him in London with the Season already begun, and far too late to help anyone.
He tucked them away again, frowning fiercely, determined to offer whatever help he can to Sam's twice-orphaned daughter, his memories of a curly-haired waif poignant and sweet. Just as he began to wonder if they would ever reach the Harrington's, the coach creaked to a halt.
Not waiting for the groom, he opened the door and swung out, stretching his cramped frame as he stood. The whispers started before he reached the door of the stately, brightly lit house — but he found them easy to ignore, despite his long absence.
He had far more important things to worry about than the wagging tongues of the ton, after all.
He paused in the entrance to the ballroom, standing at the top of the wide stairway to gaze out at the crowd of people. It was a ridiculous crush, of course, with so many people crammed into the space that it was amazing there was room to dance at all.
Then, with a shift in the assemblage that looked like a wave from above, he spotted her.
He wasn't sure how he recognized her, but he did, instantly, and thought strangely that he always would. Her dress was restrained — gown fashionable enough but not ornate; her hair drawn back into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, crowned with a cluster of flowers. He watched as she smiled charmingly at one of the gentlemen in her small crowd, then turned to engage another in conversation.
She might have been trying to be modest, understated, to escape notice, he thought. But among the fluttering birds and butterflies of the ton, her quiet grey dress and modest hairstyle made her shine like a pearl, like the glimmer of a star in a tumultuous sky.
He strode down the stairs and wove his way adeptly through the surging sea, nodding curtly once or twice to acquaintances either familiar or brave enough to speak to him, but not stopping. He didn't stop until he reached the small cluster that encircled Elizabeth Scott.
He aimed a charming smile at her companion and chaperone, the Dowager Lady Chester, and waited politely to be introduced.
Elizabeth was decidedly not enjoying herself.
The endless rounds of introductions, the false compliments, the insincere sympathy. Having to smile at strangers and make polite conversation. The whispers in the background behind the shield of manners. Aunt June, however, was in her element, prodding Elizabeth to dance with gentlemen she approved of, chattering with her cronies among the older generation.
If she wasn't ever left alone, how could she possibly accomplish anything useful?
She sipped the lemonade someone had brought her, more for something to do than from thirst, and resisted the urge to scream out loud.
But then, her attention was caught and sharpened by a new, excited note in the background hum of voices.
…back in England at last…made an absolute fortune in the West Indies, I heard…such a tragedy when…of course, his mother was French, you know…
She looked toward the entryway, curious to see who was causing all this fuss. She didn't recognize the man who was just now striding down the stairs and cutting through the swarm like a knife blade. He isn't tall, she thought, but he projects an air of such confidence and strength that he seems large and commanding. His dress was sharp and stark, everything an inky black but for his snow-white shirt and simply knotted cravat; his hair was cropped severely close to his scalp, increasing the impression of sleek power. He drew eyes like no other man in the room, and he appeared to be heading straight for her.
Did she know him, after all?
She brushed at her skirt a little, suddenly self-conscious, just as Aunt June started to speak.
Well, imaging seeing you here, after all this time, my lord. Elizabeth, do allow me to introduce…
She straightened in time to meet the full force of his smile, the candlelight glinting gold off the bristle of his hair.
And then, in a flash, she did know him, and her heart gave a hard thump that was part joy, part pain.
"Red."