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       Prologue

       Ireland

       May 10, 1843

       Midnight

      It was officially Alexander Reynolds’s twelfth birthday. The mantel clock, in the bedroom he always used on visits to Adair, had struck the final note of midnight. But he was too excited to sleep. At dinner, his Uncle James had told him the book Alexander had been begging for was in the library and his for the taking. He’d also promised Alexander a birthday surprise in the morning.

      His uncle, the Earl of Adair, who was very busy caring for the family and its interests, always made time for him and his own son, Alex’s cousin, Jamie. Alexander’s father, Oswald, spent all his time bitterly complaining that he himself wasn’t the earl.

      Alex pushed those sad thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about his father. He wanted to be happy for one whole day—from midnight to midnight. And he didn’t want to miss a moment of it.

      Sliding from bed, Alexander crept along the hall, down the back stairs. He carefully opened the door to his uncle’s library. Uncle James was there, sitting in the tall mahogany chair behind his desk. He’d fallen asleep there, as he often did. Just as Alexander was about to tiptoe into the room, he heard his father’s voice. He couldn’t see him and was relieved because if his father saw him he’d be angry, and neither he nor his mother ever angered his father if they could help it. Alex started to back away.

      But what his father was saying froze Alex in place. “Wake up, brother. I wanted you to know I’m sending you to your grave. And that sickly whelp of yours won’t be far behind. He’ll come down with something deadly or maybe I’ll arrange an accident. I’ll be earl within the year.”

      “No. Please,” his uncle begged.

      Before Alex could react, a gunshot echoed in the room and a crimson stain blossomed on the curtains near his uncle’s desk. Then Uncle James slumped forward and his head hit the desk with a sickening thud.

      Terrified, grieving and sick to his stomach all at the same time, Alexander backed away from the door and crept to the backstairs. In his bare feet, he ran silently back to his room, shaking all the way.

      As he made his way to his room, he heard servants rushing through the house. He climbed into bed, shivering and trying to think. He didn’t know what to do. If he told someone what he’d seen, would they hang his father? Would that be so terrible? he had to wonder. But whom could he tell who would be sure to punish his father and save Jamie?

      His mother was too cowed by his father. She couldn’t even stop him from beating Alex. He just turned on her and she ran away crying. Suppose his father killed all of them? Would that be Alex’s fault?

      The butler, or the estate manager? No. Not anyone on the staff? No one would take a servant’s word over his father’s. And if Alex did say something to persons of authority on his own, suppose no one believed him? If his father could kill his own brother and said he was going to kill little Jamie, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t kill Alex for telling what he’d seen. He didn’t care about that, he realized. Except that it would leave Jamie alone, standing in the way of Oswald’s desire for the earldom. Jamie would be at his mercy. Without Alex to help him, Jamie wouldn’t stand a chance.

      It was too late to help Uncle James, or even get justice for him. But Alex would guard his cousin with his own life.

      Alex swore to Jamie he would do just that when the next morning he found Jamie crying in his room over the news of his father’s suicide.

      That was how—on his twelfth birthday—Alexander Reynolds’s childhood had ended, forcing him to keep a terrible secret and a sacred promise.

       Chapter One

       New York City

       September 1878

      “Mister Reynolds,” his cousin’s butler said as he entered the study. Alexander looked up from the map he’d been studying as the tall gray-haired man continued, “A young woman claiming to be a friend of the countess has arrived. She seems a bit … nervous, sir. I thought perhaps you would be kind enough to explain that the earl and countess have sailed for Ireland.”

      “It is rather late.”

      “Indeed, sir.”

      Alex took a sip of his cognac, cautious as always to assume the careless persona he showed the world. Soon he would be free to let go of that facade. Soon that character and everything that had created him would be in the past and he could figure out who the hell he really was.

      “Not looking forward to disappointing the lady, Winston?” he pretended to tease. “You never have that problem when I ask you to send a persistent mamma on her way.”

      Winston stiffened to his tallest, most formal self. “This is different. Disappointing teary-eyed, exhausted females is not my forte, sir.”

      “You think it’s mine?”

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