Chapter One
A man who looks out of place usually is.
The Secret Journals of a Spymaster
London
August 1844
Charlotte Whittington Sinclair stood at the top of the
marble stairs leading down into Lord Arbury's crowded,
overheated ballroom. Dressed in her first new ball gown
since her year of mourning had finished, she felt as
excited and alive as a seventeen-year-old debutante
instead of a mature widow of twenty-three years.
Oh, to be out in society again! During the final six
months of her marriage, she had been forbidden to
associate with her friends and family, practically
imprisoned on her husband's remote estate in Cornwall. But
now she had shed the sad remnants of her marriage along
with her black garments and her wedding ring, and was
finally free.
Her mother, Lady Whittington, descended the stairs at her
side, forcing Charlotte into the sedate ladylike pace she
chafed at. Charlotte noticed that she received the
attentive glances of several eligible gentlemen, but
thoughts of another marriage were far from her mind.
Someday, perhaps, she would do her duty and give her
mother grandchildren, but not now. Now was for living, and
as a widow of means, she was determined to do so. But she
could certainly dance and flirt with those gentlemen.
She had been reborn since becoming a widow, and her
excitement had been further heightened when she'd
discovered her father's hidden journals just a few days
before. She'd always thought her father, Viscount
Whittington, was merely an officer in the army of the East
India Company. But his journals had introduced her to his
world as a spymaster, a secret he'd kept from them all.
Even now, she alone held the knowledge, and guarded it
close to her heart where his words enthralled her. Her own
life had been stagnant and dull next to her father's, and
his journalsmade her feel a restlessness she'd never
imagined before.
At the bottom of the stairs, as friends gathered around
them, Lady Whittington gave Charlotte a worried look. Her
mother thought Charlotte was fragile yet, a woman who
hadn't come to terms with all that had happened to her,
but Charlotte felt far from being such a pathetic
creature. She accepted the hugs of her longtime friends,
and allowed herself to be led away as she fended off their
concerned questions. She didn't want to be reminded of the
past, so she turned the conversation to the latest gossip.
After a half hour's tales of who was betrothed and who had
retired to the country with child, Charlotte moved on to
the refreshments for a glass of champagne. She stood alone
for a moment, sipping the bubbling liquid and gazing
around her at all the familiar faces. She tried to remind
herself that this was what she used to live for, the
doings of the ton, but somehow, it all seemed rather ...
dull.
Dull? she reprimanded herself. After what she'd recently
endured, she should be in her glory. But since she'd
devoured her father's journals, talk of marriage and
offspring seemed rather uninspiring. Her head was still
full of dangerous, exciting tales of India and
Afghanistan, of barren deserts and bleak mountains. Surely
she'd soon settle back into her old ways.
But did she want to? She stood alone in a crowd, full of a
knowledge no one else had, ready for the next exciting
stage of her life to beginโ and what would it be? She
tried not to let her expectations overwhelm her.
And then she saw him.
A tall man strode along the edges of the ballroom, his
expression set in a pleasant, false smile -- nothing new
there. But something was wrong. It was his eyes, she
decided as he drew nearer; they were very dark, and they
constantly swept over the room, as if looking for someone -
- or avoiding someone.
She tried to stop her imagination, for surely that's all
this could be. Her head was full of intrigues that were
not to be found in Lord Arbury's ballroom. After all, the
man did not quite look like he belonged. He was very broad
across the chest, something not normally seen among men of
her acquaintance, although he did do justice to his
evening clothes. He had black hair, a trifle longer and
more unkempt than was fashionable. His face did not have
the grace of a nobleman because of its broad bluntness and
square jaw, but it was arresting nonetheless.
As he approached her, she found herself holding her
breath, some unnameable excitement caught in her chest.
Would he speak to her? He came closer and closer, looking
bigger and more intimidating than any man she'd ever seen.
Yet his stride did not shorten, and after giving her a
single appreciative glance that traveled swiftly from her
face to the curves of her breasts, he moved on past.
Charlotte told herself to feel offended that he hadn't
even offered a simple โGood evening," that he'd so rudely
stared below her face. Yet she turned about and continued
to watch him, not caring who noticed her shocking
behavior. She moved back into the crowd, slipping between
groups of chatting women and bored men. Distantly she
heard someone call her name, but she ignored whoever it
was to concentrate on the back of the enigmatic stranger.
No one called a greeting to him, as if he knew not a soul
there. Oh, plenty of ladies noticed his retreat, but
turned up their noses at his behavior, as she should be
doing.
But she couldn't. She was fascinated and drawn to the
mystery of him. Where was he going with such single-minded
determination? She stood on her toes and craned her neck;
she stooped beneath someone's elbow so she wouldn't lose
sight of him. And then he turned, ducked beneath a giant
fern, and disappeared down a dark corridor that she knew
led to the family's private quarters ...
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