EnglandSeptember, 1842
It was the woman’s hair that drew Sam Blackstone’s full attention. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past.
Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he’d employed to rise from being a village ne’er-do-well to one of London’s most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose’s betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse.
In the past nine years, he’d played the game well and few challenges remained. He’d acquired more wealth than he’d ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members.
His driver opened the coach’s door. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.
As he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he’d acquired three years earlier. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm’s vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court.
“Beggin’ yer pardon for the delay, sir,” his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. “Oxford’s in a tangle. The fine weather’s drawn everyone out. I ’spect there’s nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present.”
The coach finally pulled away from the curb. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.
The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. She was nothing and no one to him. True, she’d been of similar height and build as Rose. And that golden hair—such a unique color. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and—
He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination grew to unrealistic proportions. Nine years had come and gone since he’d left tiny Ashby Croft. He was never going to see Rose again, and frankly, good riddance. Far from waiting for him as she’d promised, she’d married another bloke within months of his leaving. If a heart could break into a thousand jagged pieces, his had the day he’d returned to Devonshire to collect her and learned she’d thrown him over for someone else.
As much as he’d tried to forget her, the foul taste of her faithlessness had tainted every day for him since.
Despising the black mood overtaking him, he stuffed the reports back into the portfolio and closed the latch. The flow of vehicles congesting the street had slowed to a standstill. “How much longer, Gibson?” he demanded. “The ’Change opens in an hour.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Bother this.” Sam thrust the door open and climbed down from the vehicle. “I’m certain I’ll find the pace more brisk if I walk. Pick me up at half past six as usual...if you manage to be free by then.”
“Forgive me, sir, but shall I make that half past five? I overheard Cook say you was dinin’ with guests tonight.”
Sam frowned. He’d forgotten all about his dinner companions, including Lord Sanbourne and his beguiling daughter, Amelia, who was to serve as his hostess for the evening. “Right you are, Gibson. Half past five.”
The driver tipped his cap with a quick, “Aye, sir,” before pulling along the curb and setting the brake. The matched pair of gray geldings hitched to the conveyance whinnied and shook their heads as though disappointed by the loss of their morning exercise.
Portfolio in hand, Sam started off, shouldering his way through the occasional gaps that opened between his fellow pedestrians. He pressed his top hat tighter to his head to keep it from being dislodged by one of the frequent gusts of wind. At Oxford Street a seemingly endless row of traffic forced him to wait on the crowded corner.
“My, what a glorious day,” a lady in front of him cooed, nearly poking him in the eye with her ruffled parasol.
“Indeed, ’tis marvelous,” her elegant companion agreed.
Sam supposed it was true. The sun shone with undaunted enthusiasm, and rather than fog or London’s usual gray haze of coal smoke, the air seemed clear for once. Pots of flowers graced the steps and entryways of the grand terraces on both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Their late-summer blooms shone in shades of bright pink, fiery-red and, to Sam’s everlasting irritation, a golden-yellow that once again reminded him of Rose’s burnished hair.
Gritting his teeth, he headed toward Regent Street.
He wasn’t one for mysteries. He understood himself well enough to know that if he didn’t at least try to ascertain the truth of the blonde’s identity his imagination would pester him forever.
Aware of the unlikelihood of finding the stranger in the crush of people and that a solid quarter of an hour had passed since he’d first caught sight of her, he soldiered on as though some insistent, yet invisible force were pulling him forward.
Half a block later he began to wonder if he should retire to Bedlam. If there’d ever been a wild-goose chase, he was on it. Feeling foolish to his core, he scanned the hustle and bustle along the street and shook his head at his own stupidity. The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared like a vapor in the wind.
Annoyed by the bitter disappointment that assailed him, he wedged the portfolio under his arm, removed his top hat and combed a hand through his short, black hair. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he’d ever be truly free of Rose Smith.
His hat back in place, he was determined to forget the blonde and the lunacy that compelled him to chase after her. The pounding of workmen’s hammers making repairs on the row of buildings behind him mixed with the call of newspaper boys and the clamor of horses and carriages. In the distance, the bass notes of a church bell announced the ninth hour.
A momentary break in the rank of pedestrians allowed him a glimpse of his quarry on the corner at the next block. His heart kicked against his ribs. He sprinted after her, her lovely hair drawing him like a lodestar as he pushed through the gaggle of people meandering along the footpath.
A gust of wind swished the lady’s cape up and out behind her. She carried a battered valise he hadn’t noticed before, and the black garb she wore appeared to be the typical frock of a servant.
A passing barouche and row of horse carts impeded his progress at the corner of Holles Street. For a few, tension-filled moments he feared he’d lost her again, but the way cleared in time for him to see her stop in front of a Palladian townhouse on the east side of Cavendish Square. Although she stood in profile,
