Chapter One
May 1810
Bankers and body snatchers, Phadra Abbott decided grimly,
they were one and the same.
Standing in the office's window alcove, she turned her
head and looked at Sir Cecil Evans, a member of the Bank
of England's Court of Directors, letting all of her anger
flow from her eyes.
Sir Cecil reacted as if her glance scalded him. His
fingers fumbled and dropped the letter opener he'd been
playing with onto his desk. He'd been nervously toying
with the dratted thing for the past ten minutes while they
waited. His bushy brows came together in a frown, and he
huddled down deeper over his desk as if he could shut out
her presence. "It wasn't all my fault," he muttered. "Your
father had a hand in the matter."
Phadra snorted but said nothing, not trusting herself to
speak. Ignoring her companion Henny's look of concern, she
gave them all her back and stared with unseeing eyes out
the window.
Two hours. That was all the time that had elapsed since
Sir Cecil had delivered the news of her financial ruin and
her carefully constructed world had come crashing down
around her. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. She
wouldn't give up. Not yet.
When the banker had finished his confession, he'd added
that he held hopes that there was a way out of "this
tangled web your father and I wove for you" -- as if he
wouldn't also go to debtor's prison with her.
He probably wouldn't. He had money, whereas she was
bankrupt and would be held responsible for her father's
debts as well as her own.
Dear God, she had no desire to see the inside of a prison.
A sharp knock broke the silence of the room. "Come in,"
Sir Cecil said, his voice squeaking on the first word. He
cleared his throat and repeated his command in a firmer
tone.
He's more nervous than I am, Phadra thought, and realized
that she'd been holding out some hope, some prayer, that
this was all an elaborate hoax and she'd return home to
find her life intact. I must be strong. I must be brave.
She repeated the litany to herself and then turned to face
the one man Sir Cecil felt could contrive a way out of
these dire circumstances. He'd even gone so far as to
describe Grant Morgan as the sharpest mind in England.
She wondered what Morgan was doing involved with Sir Cecil
if he was so intelligent, but wisely held her tongue.
The door opened and a respectful young secretary
announced, "Mr. Morgan, sir."
"Good!" The word exploded out of Sir Cecil as he rose and
walked around the desk to greet his visitor, who was
without question one of the most handsome men Phadra had
ever laid eyes on. "Morgan, thank you for coming."
Grant Morgan had a profile -- and a body -- like those
Michelangelo had loved to sculpt. He met Sir Cecil halfway
into the room and took his hand. "I'm sorry I couldn't
answer your summons sooner, sir. I had to finish some
accounts on the Scottish question for Deveril."
His low, deep voice was pleasing to Phadra's ear. A good
voice for an actor.
But it wasn't just the looks or the voice that captured
her attention so completely. The man had presence. Why
would anyone so young -- he must have been in his early
thirties -- and so devilishly goodlooking lock himself up
in a stuffy bank?
Ignoring Henny's whispered "Oh, my" of admiration, Phadra
closed her own gaping mouth and let her artist's eye for
detail take over. Physically attractive he might be, but
he had banker's eyes, steel-gray and direct, as if they
could see right through a person. Nor did she admire the
short, conservative style of his thick, dark hair or the
fact that his welltailored dark blue coat and buff
trousers allowed no personal flair. He wore his clothes
almost as if they were a uniform.
Sir Cecil turned to her. "Let me introduce you to Miss
Phadra Abbott. She is the daughter of Sir Julius Abbott."
"The explorer?" Mr. Morgan asked.
Phadra was impressed. "You've heard of my father?"
"I read his book. Of course, that was several years ago."
"At least twelve. It was published the last time he was in
England ... that I know of." She struggled to keep the
bitterness out of her voice.
"Sir Julius has an account with the bank," Sir Cecil said.
"He does?" The news apparently surprised the younger man.
Sir Cecil looked away, as if embarrassed. "It is one I
handle personally."
Mr. Morgan's silvery eyes narrowed as if he sensed the
unspoken in Sir Cecil's statement. He looked at Phadra and
then back to his colleague. "I see."
He did see, Phadra realized, and that only made her
angrier. If he knew Sir Cecil for the bumbling,
incompetent fool she now knew him to be, why hadn't he
done something sooner? Before she'd been ruined?
As if wanting to cover the moment of realization, Sir
Cecil hurried to introduce Henny, who sat in a chair to
his right. "And this is Mrs. Henrietta Shaunessy, Miss
Abbott's companion."
The banker dutifully took her offered hand and bowed over
it while Henny cooed in her throaty voice, "Please call me
Henny."
Phadra shot her a cross look. There were times when
Henny's heyday as an opera dancer was a little too
apparent, but this was the first time it had embarrassed
Phadra. Henny smiled back, unrepentant, and tucked a dyed
red curl back under her bonnet.
Her flirtation seemed to have no impact on Mr. Morgan. He
released her hand with a tight, pleasant smile and turned
his attention to his colleague ...
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