by D. M. Quincy
* * *
“Must you be so damned stubborn?” The Duke of Somerville fixed Atlas with an icy glare.
“Yes, I’m afraid I must.” They were in the front hall of Somerville House, where Atlas prepared to take his leave. The duke had summoned him to his palatial home bordering Hyde Park to discuss rewarding him for repeatedly coming to Lilliana’s aid. Atlas had been insulted by the very suggestion.
He took in the splendor of the place. This is where Lilliana had grown up, and it was now her home again. He hadn’t seen her or the boys since they’d moved in with Somerville a sennight ago.
“I only wish to give you a small token of my appreciation,” Somerville intoned.
“I told you he wouldn’t take it.” A smiling Lilliana appeared from behind the statue. He was rather fond of that off-kilter smile of hers, the only imperfection he could find in an otherwise impossibly elegant woman. “Hello, Atlas.”
“My lady.” He bowed, his heart contracting at the sight of her. She was finely dressed in a shimmering blue gown with jewels dripping from her ears and neck. He was glad to see she’d shed the color of mourning, at least while at home. Seeing her here in her girlhood abode, completely at ease with her brother, the duke, made him keenly aware of the mammoth chasm between them.
“Why haven’t you come to call?” she admonished. “The boys are keen to show you how well they can bowl hoops now.”
“Yes,” the duke said. “I fear I am atrocious at it.”
“Will you stay for supper?” she asked, her expression hopeful. “My cousins are coming. It will be my first time seeing them again.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
The duke scoffed. “It is no intrusion. We are entertaining my aunt and her five daughters. You would at least help to balance our numbers.”
Seeing no reason to prolong the inevitable, Atlas began to decline just as the footman opened the front door and a crowd of swishing gowns and chattering voices filled the space.
“My cousins have arrived,” the duke said. “Save yourself. I only wish that I could.” He turned to his aunt and cousins, greeting them with courtly flair.
Atlas looked at Lilliana. “I must go. This is a family affair.”
She paused, a hint of uncertainty in her beautiful eyes. “You’ll call on me soon, won’t you?”
He smiled, but before he could respond, her cousins enveloped her, and she was swept away in a cloud of silk, laughter, and perfume. Turning to leave, he placed his hat on his head, content to have had a hand in returning Lily to her world, one to which he would never belong.
It was past time for him to resume his own life anyway. Cousin George’s frigate had finally pulled into port. When it set sail again in a few weeks, he intended to be on board, bound for his next adventure.
The footman dressed in sumptuous gold-and-black livery drew open the door, and Atlas stepped outside, breathing in the cool late-autumn air. It would not be long now before winter’s frost set in. A carriage clattered by, and somewhere far off, the forlorn call of a clarinet filtered through the Mayfair darkness.
Pulling his greatcoat closed to ward off the chill, Atlas bounded down the stairs and went into the night.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
England during the Regency was a place of contrasts. The formal Regency lasted from 1811—when mad King George III was deemed unfit and his son was named Prince Regent to rule in his place—until George III’s death in 1820.
Unofficially, this distinctive period in English history, a time when art, architecture, style, and literature flourished, lasted from 1795 until 1837, when Queen Victoria ascended the throne. I wanted my protagonist, Atlas Catesby, to move in this world because it was a time of extremes: of elegance and extravagance, as well as crime and poverty.
I owe a great debt to my friend Megann Yaqub, mystery reader extraordinaire, for the numerous hours she spent brainstorming this story with me, mostly over the phone, although we did sneak in some lunches along the way. Joanna Shupe, JB Schroeder, and Tina Kashian read the manuscript and offered critical suggestions. Michele Mannon can also always be counted on for writerly support and lots of laughs. I’m so grateful for all of my writer friends who make up the Violet Femmes at NJRW.
In her elegant, gracious, and tenacious way, my agent, Kevan Lyon, pushed me to make this manuscript memorable, and then my outstanding editor, Faith Black Ross, made it shine even more. My thanks to everyone at Crooked Lane Books, including Lori Palmer, who gave me a gorgeous cover.
My husband, Taoufiq, was the first and most ardent supporter of my writing, and my boys, Zach and Laith, make everything worthwhile.
But my sincerest appreciation of all goes to you, the reader, for spending this time in Atlas’s world. I hope you’ve enjoyed it!
