Page 1 of A Daring Pursuit

Prologue

London—Winter 1827

Stiffening her lips,five-year-old Geneva Wimbley covered her ears with her hands and begged some unknown being to keep her mama from dying. She didn’t know what was wrong, but since she’d been confined to Mrs. Cornett’s abode, she knew it was bad. Mrs. Cornett lived in the flat beneath hers and Mama’s.

“She’s going to die, isn’t she?” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.

Mrs. Cornett patted her hand, leaving an imprint of flour from her bread-making. “Now, now, Geneva. You mustn’t be so odious regarding these matters.”

Geneva brushed off the flour and went to the grimy window that looked out over the street below, where debris blew about. The rain was welcome because it washed away a lot of the muck. “What will happen to me?”

“Your papa is expected back soon, dear. You don’t need to worry none.”

A shudder went through Geneva. Papa didn’t much like her. She would have to run away from home if Mama died. She couldn’t stay with her father. Every time he returned, the overpowering stench of being unwashed and that stinky gin reeked through the flat—she knew what it was because she’d overheard Mrs. Cornett telling Mrs. Barding, who lived across the hall.

Months ago, the smell had had Mama casting up her accounts. Eventually, she’d been able to hold down her piddling dinners. But her suffering now was worse. Much worse.

Geneva had to be ready. She’d have to take the ruby locket Mama had promised her without Papa knowing. Geneva had no doubt that Papa would toss her in the streets or sell her to one of the pickpocket handlers who ran the neighborhood’s really horrid places. “Do you have any books, Mrs. Cornett?”

“Books! Lordy, Geneva.” The rolling pin she held landed on the table with a thunk. “What do you want with books? Girls have no need for such nonsense.”

Geneva turned from the window, stunned by the hurt curling through her. “But my mama has shown me my letters and is teaching me words.” She planted her hands on her hips. “She told me I shall attend the same school she went to when she was a young girl.”

Mrs. Cornett came from behind the table, her flour-covered hands landing at her ample hips. “Why, I never! You shouldn’t tell lies, Geneva. It’s unseemly.” She shook her head and pushed back a strand of steel-colored hair from her forehead, leaving a streak of white. “And with your sweet, little mama on her deathbed.”

“Deathbed!” Geneva ran out the door and pounded up the stairs in the dank, narrow hall to her own floor above.

A huge man in a vast, swirling greatcoat swept by her and pounded on the door of Mama’s and her small flat. He didn’t even wait for Mama to open the door—just kicked it in and slammed it in Geneva’s face. He hadn’t even seen her. Fear hurt her tummy.

He didn’t come back out like Geneva thought he would, and after a few minutes, she crept forward, cracked the door open, and peered in.

“Can’t ye see she’s in pain, ye blackguard?” It was a woman’s voice Geneva didn’t recognize.

The other voice was low, a gravelly timbre that would haunt Geneva forever, even though she had trouble making out his words.

Mama was panting. “I-I know she doesn’t belong to you, my lord, but please, have mercy… take her too, my lord. She deserves a better life than what that bastard I’m married to will give her.”

“Bah. It’s sufficient to say you didn’t have the sense to keep from letting things get this far and nowI’mstuck with the consequences. I shall take this, however, for compensation. Send the girl to the Black Widow when she’s of an age. Hell, I’ll pay the exorbitant fees it’ll require.” Then he laughed.

It was a laugh that sent chills of black ice inside Geneva. Blinking back tears, Geneva forgot about Mama being in bed, about wanting a book, or about anything but dashing back down the stairs to the warmth and safety of Mrs. Cornett’s flat.

The older woman stood in the door with her arms opened.

Geneva dove straight into them. “You were right. Mama is on her deathbed.” Her voice was muffled against the older woman’s scratchy, woolen frock.

“No, child. I should’na said any such thing. It ain’t her time. Ye jes wait ’n see. Don’ fret now. Soon ye’ll have a playmate o’ yer own.” She patted Geneva’s shoulder. “Now, chin up, me sweet. Come an’ have a nice, warm piece a bread right from the oven.”

*

Northumberland, Winter—1827

A blistering windswept through Stonemare that was more in line with the Earl of Pender’s sudden appearance than the open doorbehind him saturating Mrs. Knagg’s freshly polished floor with slashing rain.

Ten-year-old Noah Oshea, second son of the Earl of Pender, peeked through the crack from the library where he’d been immersed inThe Sceptical Chymistby Robert Boyle. It was an old text in which Mr. Boyle introduced chemical elements. He’d already tried reading William Harvey’sDe Motu Cordison the motion of heart and blood in animals. Yes, the words were too hard to figure out, but he would read anything to blot out his mother’s screams that bellowed the halls. They were harsh sounds that echoed against the castle’s old stone covered with threadbare tapestries.

He hadn’t seen Mama. Not since she’d fainted at some pain growing in her stomach two days ago. Every time he approached Mrs. Knagg, their housekeeper, or the butler, Winfield, he’d been shooed away. The old castle was drafty and not in ideal condition for anyone, let alone someone not feeling well. Mama was likely to contract the ague. It wasn’t fair that Lucius, his older brother by three years, could live at school instead of home tasked with taking care of the estate that would be turned over to him as heir apparent. Noah firmed his lips and prepared to step back but made the mistake of looking up.

Papa was staring straight at him with a wicker basket hanging off his forearm. “Have a gift for you, boy,” he growled.

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