CHAPTER ONE
Lady Rebecca Grahamstood with her arm linked through her old friend’s, the Baron Brightmore, and said a silent prayer for small favors. She’d not have wanted to attend this funeral, of all funerals, alone.
As if Dillan sensed her discomfort, he patted the hand tucked into his elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she replied softly, swallowing down her lump of regret. “Please tell Alexi how much I appreciate her suggestion that you attend with me. Your wife is an angel.”
Dillan gave her a look of sympathy as he whispered his response. “She is. But I get at least some of the credit for coming, don’t I?”
“Of course,” she said as she ducked her head. She was the slightest bit jealous of his newfound happiness with his bride. Not that Dillan didn’t deserve all the good the world could bring him, he most certainly did. But if he’d gotten the future he’d earned, she must be a terrible person because the last several years, she’d experienced nothing but misery. This funeral marked the last tie she’d had with her own dream of a happily-ever-after.
She and Dillan stood at the very back of the group of mourners who gathered outside the mausoleum of the Marquess of Northampton.
The man who was supposed to be her father-in-law.
That thought caused her mouth to tighten once again as pain radiated through her chest. She and the marquess had remained in contact over the last three years, neither having any family left.
They’d been drawn together by grief. Northampton had lost both of his sons in the span of the month, the younger son, Bennet, had been her fiancé. When the marquess had come to London to live out his remaining years, she’d moved as well to pursue a career. She’d been too grief-stricken to even think of marrying someone other than Bennet.
Even recalling his name made her throat tighten in pain. Three years had done little to quell the ache.
He’d been her whole world before his untimely death. Even now, she could picture his face…his strong jaw, straight nose, and dark brown eyes, the sort that always seemed to look deep into her soul.
He was nearly a head taller than her, so she’d often placed her arms about the thick column of his neck; whenever she looked up to speak to him, he’d always responded by pulling her close to his hard chest, his fingers splaying out on her back.
Her chest throbbed again. She had to stop thinking like this. The memories were a torture of their own and they were driving her slowly mad. In fact, two weeks prior, she’d been certain…
Well, she could have sworn that she’d seen Bennet walking down the street in the middle of the day. Surely, she’d imagined it because the ache of knowing his father was about to pass was more than she could bear.
She looked away, blinking back tears.
She’d lost her parents at the age of twelve. That was when she’d left her childhood home and traveled to live with her aunt in Cheshire. Her aunt had been ancient and half daft, but Bennet and his family had anchored her during that time. They’d met when she was fourteen, and their friendship had grown into romance, which had blossomed into a binding love and promise of marriage at the age of eighteen. And now she was losing the last thread of that life and any family she might call her own.
Perhaps she should have married another man. Had a family.
Her heart revolted at the idea. She’d only ever loved Bennet. But at least her life would have had meaning if she’d moved on. Instead, she’d come to London and taken a position with theMorning Herald. She’d hoped to write gripping stories about the crime that riddled the city. After Bennet’s death, that spoke to her.
But she’d mostly been confined to society pieces on the latest gossip within theton. The editor had argued with her status as the daughter of an earl, she was perfect for the position, but she wanted to delve into crime and help bring the darkness to light.
She blinked several times, clearing her gaze from the misty tears that threatened to spill over.
The marquess was gone, the last of Bennet’s family, and tomorrow, she’d return to her work, where she’d write another piece on this year’s skirt size, and who had been ruined at the previous night’s ball, and…
In the distance was a row of trees, and she saw that a figure stood under one. He leaned one broad shoulder against the trunk, his arms crossed and his hat pulled low. There was a careless grace to the man that reminded her of…
She cursed to herself. She had to stop obsessing about Bennet. He was dead. A plaque commemorated his life in this very mausoleum. Lost on the Thames during his return journey to London.
Not that she could find any details or evidence of what had happened to his ship on that fateful night.
She’d tried.
Perhaps her editor, Watkins, was correct and she was better off writing fluffy pieces. She’d exhausted every investigative trick in her arsenal and was still no closer to finding Bennet’s murderers.
She looked away from the man under the trees to the mausoleum as the priest finished the final prayers. Bennet wasn’t under the trees. But her gaze was once again drawn to the man. He shifted, scrubbing at his jaw, and then his gaze caught hers and he froze.
They were too far away and yet their eyes locked, a shiver racing down her spine. “Bennet?” she whispered under her breath, even the low word cracking in her mouth.
“Rebecca?” Dillan asked.