LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      ‘I have one last, but very important, quest for you, Chase...’

      Chase drew Brutus to a halt at the foot of Huxley’s Folly.

      The last time he’d seen his cousin, he’d stood precisely there in the arched doorway of the stone tower, his wispy grey hair weaving in the breeze like an underwater plant.

      The last time he’d seen him and the first and last time Huxley had ever expressed any sentiment regarding Chase’s chosen occupation.

      ‘I do hope what you do for Oswald doesn’t place you in too much peril, Chase. Tessa would be very upset if you joined her too soon.’

      Huxley always referred to Chase’s mother as if her death was merely a temporary absence. It was one of the reasons Chase found visiting Huxley a strain, but that was no excuse for neglecting him these past couple of years, no matter how busy Oswald kept him.

      ‘It’s my fault, Brutus.’ He stroked the horse’s thick black neck. ‘I should have visited more often. Too late now.’

      Brutus huffed, twin bursts of steam foaming into the chilly air.

      Chase sighed and swung out of the saddle. Coming to Huxley Manor always stretched his patience, but without Huxley himself his stay would be purgatorial. Nothing wrong with postponing it a little longer with a visit to the ramshackle Folly tower. Every time he came it looked a little more stunted, but as children he and Lucas and Sam fantasised that it was populated with ogres, magical beasts and escaped princesses.

      He approached the wall where Huxley kept a key behind a loose brick, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He frowned and slipped inside, a decade of working as emissary for his uncle at the Foreign Office coming into play even though he knew there was probably no need. Being sent to smooth out some of the less mentionable kinks in relations with Britain’s allies meant one collected as many enemies as friends. Wariness had the advantage of increasing longevity, but it also flared up at inappropriate moments, and this was probably just such a case.

      No doubt whoever was in the tower was merely his cousin, Henry, the new Baron Huxley, or Huxley’s trusted secretary, Mallory, Chase told himself as he climbed the stairs silently.

      It was neither.

      For a moment as he stood in the doorway of the first floor of the tower he wondered if he’d conjured one of their old tales into being—the Princess locked away and pining for her Prince.

      His mouth quirked in amusement at his descent into fancy as he took in the details of her attire. Definitely not a princess.

      She was seated at Huxley’s desk, which was positioned to provide a view from the arched window, so she was facing away and all he could see was the curve of her cheek and tawny-brown hair gathered into a tightly coiled bun exposing the fragile line of her nape and a very drab-coloured pelisse with no visible ornamentation.

      She was leaning over some papers on the desk with evident concentration and the opening words in Huxley’s cryptic letter forced their way back into his mind.

       There is something I have but recently uncovered that I must discuss with you. I think it will be best you not share this revelation with anyone, except perhaps with Lucas, as it can do more harm than good to those I care about most...

      Huxley’s letter, dated almost a month ago, awaited him on his return from St Petersburg two days ago, as well as a message from his man of business with news of Huxley’s demise and his last will and testament.

      Chase hadn’t the slightest idea what Huxley was referring to, but he had every intention of finding out. Through the centuries the Sinclair name became synonymous with scandal, but now Lucas was married and Sam widowed Chase had every intention of keeping his family name out of the muck and mire it so loved wallowing in. If Huxley had uncovered something damaging and had it here at the Manor, Chase intended to destroy it as swiftly and quietly as possible.

      Therefore, the sight of a strange woman seated at Huxley’s desk and looking through his papers was not the most welcome vision at the moment.

      As if sensing his tension, she straightened, like a rabbit pricking its ears, then turned and rose in one motion, sending the chair scraping backwards. For the briefest moment her eyes reflected fear, but then she did something quite different from most women he knew. Like a storm moving backwards she gathered all expression inwards and went utterly flat. It was like watching liquid drain out of a crack in a clay vessel, leaving it empty and dull.

      They inspected each other in silence. With all trace of emotion gone from her face she was as unremarkable as her clothes—her height was perhaps a little on the tall side of middling, but what figure he could distinguish beneath her shapeless pelisse was too slim to fit society’s vision of proper proportions and the pelisse’s hue, a worn dun colour that hovered between grey and brown and was an offence to both, gave a sallow cast to her pale skin. Only her eyes were in any way remarkable—large and a deep honey-brown. Even devoid of expression they held a jewel-like glitter which made him think of a tigress watching its prey from the shadows.

      ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her voice surprisingly deep and husky for someone so slight. That, too, was unusual. Similar demands were fired at him by friend and foe since he’d joined the army and not nearly as imperiously. Predictably he felt his hackles rise along with his suspicions.

      ‘I could ask the same question. Are you another of Lady Ermintrude’s nieces? I thought I had met the lot.’

      She moved along the desk as he approached, putting it between them, but he concentrated on what lay on top. Piled high with papers and books, it was much more chaotic than he remembered and he wondered if his cousin or the young woman were the cause.

      He glanced at the slip of paper she’d inspected with such concentration. It was a caricature of a camel inspecting a pot of tea through a quizzing glass, grey hair swept back in an impressive cockade over a patrician brow. The resemblance to his cousin’s antiquarian friend Phillip ‘Poppy’ Carmichael was impressive and a fraction of Chase’s tension eased, but only a fraction. This particular scrap of paper might have nothing to do with Huxley’s message, but any of the other papers here might hold the key to understanding it.

      He returned his attention

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