Chapter 1

1

Osburt Laytham was a favourite of James I. Under His Majesty’s charter, Osburt sailed to the Indies, and on his return with untold wealth as well as a valued treaty, he was rewarded with first a knighthood and then a baronetcy and the estate he renamed Fayerweather.

Sir Osburt had brought with him an exotic bride, a black-haired, sloe-eyed beauty who was dowered with a fortune in jewels. Among those jewels was a ruby the size of her fist. This ruby had been given the name Flame of Diabul, because when held up to the light, there appeared to be a fire burning within its depths.

Over the span of centuries, the fortune of the Laythams gradually shrank, until all that was left was Fayerweather and the Flame, and the legend that if ever the ruby passed out of Laytham hands, a dire fate would befall the man who allowed it to happen.

But it was simply a legend, and why would any rationally-thinking man believe that nonsense?

Why indeed?

* * * *

I was a child of seven the first time I saw Laytham Hall, too young to realise the country was in mourning for the passing of our monarch, King George III. I thought everyone was grieving the loss of my parents with me.

Laytham Hall was a large and sprawling pile of grey stone, with a small portico shielding the double doors that opened into the Great Hall. Nestled at the heart of Fayerweather in Surrey, its sombre fa?ade was covered with ivy, and wintry sunlight sparkled on the frost that etched the numerous, paned windows, but lovely as it was, at that time it was not my home, and I did not want to be there.

The Laytham line had dwindled along with the family fortune until there were just three sons. Eustace, the eldest, would one day inherit the baronetcy. He had an unpredictable temper as well as a tendency to bully those who dared not fight back, and was not much liked by anyone, even his own parents. As the heir, however, he knew what was due the estate and married as soon as he met someone he felt was suitable for the position of his lady.

Osburt was the youngest. In the normal course of events, he would have been destined for the church, but he was reputed to be wild to a fault and had been cast out of the family by the old baronet. After the passing of many years with no word from him, it was considered that in all likelihood his rake-hell ways had led to his death.

Archibald, the middle son, was my Papa. Grandpapa would have bought him his colours, but the military held no appeal to him, and instead, because his Godfather left him a tidy sum, he moved to London and chose to spend his time trying to set the newest fashion in neckcloths and waistcoats and in racketing about Town.

There was still a goodly amount left of his inheritance when he met Mama whilst visiting with friends in the Cotswolds.

Mama was a vicar’s daughter, sweet-tempered and sweet-faced with the loveliest brown eyes, sadly hidden behind the lenses of her thick spectacles, the last woman on earth one would think to attract my father. He persuaded her to elope with him to Gretna Green, and while Eustace, who by that time had become sixth Baronet and the only surviving family member, shrugged indifferently, Mama’s father was livid—her destiny was to care for him, the vicarage, and his congregation, not marry some rakehell, and so he predicted gloom, doom, and penurious misery for her and her offspring and disowned her.

He was quite surprised when I didn’t arrive until two years later, as blond and blue-eyed as Papa, and Grandpapa grudgingly tried to make amends, but by that time the rift between him and Mama was too deep. She rebuffed his sanctimonious attempts, and so I grew up with no contact with him.

That was why, when my parents were drowned in a boating accident whilst crossing the Channel when I was seven, I was sent to Laytham Hall.

“Oh, you poor child!” Aunt Cecily, Uncle Eustace’s wife, did not have children of her own. She enveloped me in a fragrant embrace, but it was not my Mama’s scent, and instead of returning her embrace, I held myself stiffly. Her enthusiasm dampened, she released me, and I could only be relieved.

“Well, you would insist upon taking him in,” Uncle growled at her. “Rude brat. Not much to look at either, is he?” A frown furrowed his brow, and he flicked a fingertip against the spectacles I perforce had worn from the time I was a tot and Papa realised it was not clumsiness that caused me to fall down stairs or walk into walls but my poor eyesight that was at the bottom of it.