“I don’t have any things. All I have is what is on my back.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, Lydia. Things don’t matter.” They were at Darkwell’s and therefore lost forever. And she didn’t care. Her few dresses and vanity items represented her life as a prisoner.

“Come see your bedroom. We didn’t touch it at all. Father and Mother wouldn’t allow it.”

Her parents had died a year after she had been sent to Mrs. Darkwell’s. Then Simon had become earl and had run the household until his death. Harry had been only seventeen when he had become earl. It was at the same time he became a vampire slayer.

Harry had been forced to grow up so quickly.

All because of her power. She knew how Simon had really died, but her power must have killed their parents. Guilt bit into her. She had robbed Lydia of parents. How could she be happy and normal with her sister knowing that?

How did one fight this horrible guilt? She wanted Ravenhunt to fight it, yet she didn’t know how. She could not just forget it. It was real and it was a pain that wouldn’t go away.

Guilt made the rest of her morning with Lydia strange and awkward. She tried to behave naturally, but inside self-reproach gnawed away at her stomach.

Finally she begged the need to lie down. She went up to the attics.

Years ago, in the old nursery, she had made a small studio for sculpting. Everything remained in place. Wooden-handled sculpting tools sat on a cloth on a small table. Partly finished carvings sat in the light of the windows. There were her clay pieces. They had never been fired; they had just dried out with time. Some had crumbled.

She picked up one of the tools. She’d spent hours using it. Banished away from people because of her supposed illness (really her power), she had come up here. The sculptures acquired by Father over his Grand Tour days had inspired her.

Father had agreed to provide her with tools and materials, even though this was a shocking occupation for a girl.

Ophelia set down the carving tool. She didn’t want to sculpt anything.

Well, what she really wanted to mold and shape was her own future. She wanted to cut away Raven’s guilt, exposing a man who could be happy.

She had picked the one sculpting ambition that would be almost impossible.

Changing a man.


She was supposed to spend the night safely in her old bedroom, but she couldn’t sleep. Ophelia got out of her old bed, in this room that now felt foreign and strange. For years, when a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, she’d dreamed of being here. Now she felt she didn’t belong here—she belonged with Raven.

Stealthily, she got out of bed. Harry had left her and Lydia here and he’d returned to the Royal Society offices. The house was filled with servants, and that would keep her safe. She knew he, along with Lord Brookshire and Mr. de Wynter, had already circulated the truth throughout the Royal Society: that her power was gone.

She had nothing to fear from them anymore.

She crept to her brother’s room and quickly dressed in some of his clothes. His trousers were rather snug over her hips.

Ophelia pulled on one of Lydia’s velvet cloaks to hide her masculine attire, then had one of the footmen summon her brother’s carriage. The servants had been given no instructions to stop her. She guessed Harry had never thought she would try to sneak out.

She rushed down and clambered into the carriage, giving the address of Guidon’s shop. With the carriage waiting outside, she banged on the now familiar door.

In minutes, she was inside the parlor with Guidon. But he did not give her tea. This time he gave her sherry.

At least, she thought it was sherry. She took a sip, gasped a bit, for even just a drop burned on the way down. “Strong,” she gasped.

Guidon studied her seriously. “It must be, my lady, for it helps you to see everything you wish to know.”

Impulsively, she touched Guidon’s arm. “I want to know about Ravenhunt. Did you know what happened to him before he became a vampire? He was a soldier, I know, but why does he feel such guilt? Why did he run away when his fiancée died? Was it because he loved her so much and then lost her? Does he feel responsible?”

“I should let Ravenhunt tell you, Lady Ophelia. He did reveal the worst to you. The thing that he feared would hurt you. The death of your brother.”

“I don’t remember very much about my brother. I had no idea Simon was a warlock—until I went to Mrs. Darkwell’s, I didn’t know what one was. But I want to know what torments Ravenhunt so.”

Guidon reached out and clasped her hand. Ophelia looked down as he patted her hand, again amazed at how normal it was beginning to feel to touch.

“Lady Ophelia, I must know . . . was Mrs. Darkwell good to you? Did she take care of you?” Guidon’s tufty eyebrows were drawn in a frown, his bulgy eyes filled with concern.

“I suppose she did, but she kept me like a prisoner. I know she had to protect everyone else, but it hurt me deeply.”

“She must have done it for the best, Lady Ophelia.”

“I don’t know. I think—I think she was afraid of me.” She shrugged, acting as though that had not hurt her. “I suppose I cannot blame her.”

“How did Ravenhunt capture you, my lady, when you were under Mrs. Darkwell’s protection?” Guidon looked at her intently. “It was for your protection, you must understand that. There was a great fear that you would be destroyed, if anyone found out the truth.”

“I understand that. I could kill people. Of course, people would want to kill me.”

“That is all behind you now. Would you tell me how he caught you? It is very important, my lady.”

“I—I liked to sculpt. So I snuck out of Darkwells’ and went to the British Museum to see the statues and the Elgin Marbles. Ravenhunt met me there. I would go close to closing, as I couldn’t sneak out earlier. Once when I got there, he had not come, but he’d left a note for me, inviting me to Lady Cresthaven’s house. That was where he took me.”

Guidon appeared to be jiggling with anxiety on the seat.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Mrs. Darkwell’s restrictions drove you to sneak out of the house, my lady?”

She nodded.

“Indeed.” He rubbed his chin, nodded his head. “It might be enough.”

“Enough for what? What are you talking about?”

“You wished to know more about Ravenhunt,” he said quickly. “About his past and why he carries such guilt.”

She nodded and sipped more of the sherry. It gave her such a jolt, she coughed. Her eyes watered, and she blinked the tears away. Through the film of them, she opened her eyes and saw a tall, blond gentleman across from her.

“Aah!” The cry of shock flew off her lips. But when she blinked again, there was no handsome gentleman. Guidon sat there. He smiled, which for him looked like a grimace. She shook her head. “I am so sorry. My nerves are not as strong as I thought. I’m imagining things.”

She took a deep breath and put the sherry glass down on a small table. “What happened in his past?”

Even as she asked the question, the room seemed to dissolve before her eyes. She could see a lying-in in an elegant bedchamber. The birth was underway. In the middle of the bed, amidst bloody and wet sheets, a sweat-soaked woman cried out in pain. The woman fell back, sobbing as if she could endure no more. Someone cried joyfully, “A boy. My lady, you have been blessed with a son.” More images flashed in front of her, then she gasped. The woman who had given birth lay on the bed with her eyes open and unseeing, her skin ashen, her lips blue.

No. Oh no. The images disappeared, leaving her on the verge of tears. She gained control. “Ravenhunt’s mother died giving birth to him.”

“Yes.” Guidon studied her gravely. “His father never forgave him and held him responsible for his mother’s death. She died of loss of blood after the birth. Internal bleeding that could not be stopped. His sister, Frederica, is his half sister. Yet even though his father remarried, he never stopped hating Ravenhunt for the death.”

“That was not his fault. You cannot mean to say he has always felt guilty for that.”

“He has, my lady. It made him very protective of Frederica, which led to many arguments between them.”

“What of his fiancée?”

“Lady Margaret Calthorne, an earl’s daughter. She was very lovely.”

“She died of an illness.”

“No, Lady Ophelia, that is not the truth. This is very tragic, but you must see it. Close your eyes, then open them and you will be witness to the truth.”

She saw a woman with dark brown curls, with a rounded belly beneath a white shift. Fists suddenly rained down on that tiny bump. Sobbing wildly, the woman beat her own tummy.

Ophelia reached out to stop her.

But the woman didn’t really exist. She could do nothing. She couldn’t stop the savagery with which the blows rained down. Crying with great heaves, the woman stumbled to her writing table and snatched out paper. Then she sat and meticulously wrote a beautiful letter. Ophelia could see the writing, but she could not read it—it was like looking at the image through wavering glass. The young brunette folded it neatly. Tears no longer ran down her face. She wore an aura of calm.

But then the woman stood and she walked gracefully to the open window. Though it was hard for her to move, she managed to put one foot onto the ledge and she grasped the sash—

The image vanished.

“She took her own life,” Guidon said in husky tones, “because she was with child.”

“Why?” Ophelia gasped, horrified. “If she was to marry Ravenhunt, why would she kill herself over a—” She remembered when he’d spoken of love as being something fraught with problems. And she knew. “Oh my, it was not his child, was it?”