Prologue:

There was a constant stream of people entering and leaving her house, and Venetia watched them with wide eyes, one hand tightly clutching her favorite doll. These were not the kind of people she had occasionally sneaked out of the nursery to catch glimpses of during her parents’ lavish parties and balls. They were not the ones in glittering clothing with bright smiles and cheery voices that mingled with the music from the large ballroom. Nor did they resemble the elegantly dressed men and women her mother had once introduced her to in the blooming garden.
Instead, a somber atmosphere hung over the visitors. Men with stern and worried expressions, dressed in dark, heavy garments, carried closed bags that Venetia had been strictly warned never to touch. Occasionally, plain-dressed women would appear, their heavily starched and bleached clothes emanating the distinct aroma of medicine. The women paid no attention to Venetia, save for curt instructions, and the men never spoke to her at all.
Venetia had little concern for the people around her, except for a lingering curiosity about them. However, she had been driven out of her nursery rooms by intense loneliness. A few days ago, her governess had departed and never returned, leaving her without companionship or someone to play with. Miss Wilkes, the cook, made sure she received her meals and occasional clothing changes, but her own duties often kept her too preoccupied for much more than that.
Worse, she hadn’t laid eyes on her mother in what felt like an eternity. The countless days blurred together, making it difficult for her to keep track, separating the time in her young mind between ‘now’ and ‘before’. Before, her mother had enjoyed dancing and strolling in the gardens, singing her favorite songs in her beautiful voice. She had spent hours reading Venetia tales of enchantment and magic, her words making the stories come alive and filling the house with wonder. Before, the entire manor had been filled with her mother’s bright, wonderful laughter.
Now, the air was heavy with a leaden silence that seemed unbreakable. The laughter was gone. Her mother had secluded herself in her room, and nobody offered Venetia any explanations or permitted her to visit. The few attempts she had made resulted in finding the door locked or one of the stern women blocking the entrance and shooing her away.
Her father, too, seemed distant and detached. Their encounters were brief and silent, limited to passing glances as he hurried through the halls or shared meals that he ate quickly and without interest. His expression was devoid of smiles or laughter, even when she tried to elicit a response from him through words and gestures. Overwhelming sadness and exhaustion seemed to fill him, and he rarely offered her anything more than a gentle pat on the head before turning his attention to the staff or retreating to either his study or her mother’s room.
As the door to her mother’s room opened, Venetia darted forward. “Mother? Father?”
She was almost through when a pair of strong arms, wrapped in heavy cotton, caught her around the waist and halted her progress, before lifting her up and pulling her back. Venetia let out a cry of frustration and hurt. “Mother! Father! Please come play with me!”
“Hush, child. Hush now, sweet girl,” Miss Wilkes said, setting her down and crouching in front of her. The cook tried to smile, but the expression looked wrong—sad somehow, as if she was trying not to cry at the same time. “Now’s not a good time to be disturbing your family, my darling. Your mother isn’t feeling well. She needs her rest, and your father is looking after her.”
Miss Wilkes had never called her darling or sweetheart. Only Anna, her governess, and her mother did that. Sometimes her father did, but not often. Venetia pouted, her hands clenched around her doll. “I want someone to play with me. Where’s Anna?”
“Anna had to leave, child. And never you mind why.” Miss Wilkes looked around the halls, then sighed. “I know you’re upset, Venetia, and who wouldn’t be? You’re a young thing, stuck inside. So, if you promise to behave, I’ll take you out to the gardens. Would you like that?”
Venetia nodded eagerly, her distress forgotten in the waves of excitement. The gardens held a special place in her heart, their delightful scents always filling the air. Her mother had taken her on countless strolls, acquainting her with each flower and promising to teach Venetia the art of cultivation and floral arrangements that adorned the beloved Manor. The thought of brightening the estate with bouquets brought a spark of joy to Venetia’s eyes.
“Will Mother come too? Perhaps the flowers will uplift her spirits,” Venetia inquired, her voice brimming with hope. Her mother always found solace amidst the blooms, her happiness evident with every step she took in the garden.
Miss Wilkes responded with a peculiar smile, a blend of sorrow and fondness. “Not today, my dear. Perhaps another time.”
Assisting Venetia in donning her outdoor shoes, Miss Wilkes draped a warm cloak over her delicate dress. Despite the chill in the air and the drizzle of gray rain, Venetia’s laughter echoed through the garden as she playfully darted forward, arms outstretched, attempting to capture glistening droplets on her sleeves.
An enchanting symphony of earthy scents enveloped Venetia, awakening her senses to the fragrant embrace of new growth. With a skip in her step, she embarked on a playful run, relishing in the delight of darting through the garden’s winding paths. The bushes danced in the misty rain, transforming the surroundings into a mystical playground straight out of her mother’s stories.
“Venetia! Do not wander off, young lady!” Miss Wilkes urgently called from behind, but Venetia, captivated by the intoxicating blend of earth and untamed rainwater, paid no heed to the caution.
Deeper she ventured, following the labyrinthine paths with a child’s whimsy. Pausing here and there, she plucked a blossom or an intriguingly shaped leaf, creating a modest yet vibrant bouquet within her small hands. She knew her mother’s fondness for flowers and hoped that bringing a piece of the garden inside would hasten her recovery.

Suddenly, Venetia found herself in an unfamiliar part of the garden, uncharted even by her explorations with her mother. She paused, her gaze fixed on the mysterious path before her.
Unlike the meticulously groomed hedges and neatly shaped bushes adorning the rest of the garden, this new section possessed an untamed allure. The path seemed almost devoured by nature itself, its stones nestled beneath a lush carpet of verdant moss and blades of grass. Towering trees, their branches intertwining overhead, cast a cloak of shadows upon the winding trail.
As Venetia’s gaze penetrated the depths, glimpses of weathered statues emerged, barely visible amidst the dense foliage. Time had cloaked them in moss, transforming them into haunting figures akin to hunched, green-bearded gargoyles.
Shrouded in mist, the scene resembled a fairy tale come to life. Venetia stared in wonder for a moment before darting up the path, her heart pulsating with hope.
A gentle breeze brushed against her face, whispering words of encouragement that quickened Venetia’s pace. Legends of fairies granting blessings to children stirred her young mind. If these mystical beings had chosen this hidden realm as their abode, perhaps they would be willing to grant her a favor to aid her ailing mother.
Just as Venetia reached the edge of the overgrown path, Miss Wilkes swooped down, firmly grasping her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going, miss?”
“I wanted to see what lies beyond,” Venetia explained, pointing towards the wild, untamed path. “There might be something to assist Mother.”
“Indeed, there is nothing—certainly nothing to aid Lady Fairchild. Moreover, a young lady like yourself should not venture into such places,” the cook scolded, gripping Venetia’s hand tightly. She began guiding her back along the paths to the house, their hurried pace leaving Venetia half-trotting to keep up.

With each step, the cook’s scolding continued under her breath. “I warned you about wandering off, little miss, did I not? Your sudden departure nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I just wanted to gather flowers for Mother,” Venetia pouted, wrinkling her nose at the cook. “And I wanted to see where the path leads.”
“That path doesn’t go anywhere you need to go. In fact, your lord father forbade anyone from entering this section of the gardens years ago,” the cook replied sternly.
“Forbade?” Venetia blinked in confusion.
“It means you’re not allowed to wander into that area. Neither you nor any other member of this household. Even your lady mother hasn’t ventured there in quite some time, my dear. Frolicking along those paths like a hooligan is not at all appropriate.” The cook huffed and paused briefly, then turned down another long garden path.
Venetia’s gaze lingered on some bushes farther ahead, in a section she hadn’t explored. She tugged at the cook’s hand. “But I want to keep looking for flowers.”
“You may want to search for more flowers, young lady, but it would be wise not to linger for too long in this inclement weather. Besides, Lord Fairchild is likely to come looking for you soon.”
Venetia’s eyes lit up, and she quickened her pace, eager to see her father.
They had just reached the polished stone steps leading from the garden to the house when the door swung open, revealing her father in disarray. His usually immaculate hair was tousled, his face mottled with patches of red and white, and his clothes disheveled.
He spotted her moments later. “Venetia!” His voice was louder than she had ever heard, cracking oddly as he rushed toward her.
Miss Wilkes stepped aside as her father swooped in and scooped her up, his grip so tight that Venetia whimpered and dropped the flowers to the ground as she clutched her father’s arms. “Father?”
“Venetia. My darling girl.” Tears streamed down her father’s face as he held her close. “Venetia.”
“Father, are you alright?” She had never seen her father cry before.
“I…” His voice choked, and he paused, taking deep breaths against her shoulder. “I fear it’s just you and me now, my darling daughter. Only you and me.”
Venetia furrowed her brow. “But what about Mother?”
Her father made a soft, hiccuping sound, like the one she made when trying to stifle her sobs. “I’m sorry, my dear Venetia. Your mother is with God now. It’s only the two of us left.”
She didn’t understand, but she heard the sounds her father made and saw the sorrow in Miss Wilkes’ eyes as she stood behind him.
Something was wrong. And somehow, in her young mind, she knew that her world had changed forever—and not for the better.

Chapter One:

Ten years later…
A residence in Vienna

Richard Wilmont, the second son of the Duke of Ashbourne, smirked as he stumbled slightly over an uneven cobblestone. The night had been particularly fine, beginning with an excellent and decadent meal, and ending in a small townhouse with a welcoming lady of Viennese nobility. He could still smell the alluring scent of her perfume lingering on the collar of his shirt, mingling with the musk of his own cologne and a faint hint of sweat—a heady blend reminiscent of the wine that still lingered on his tongue.
He made his way up the steps and into the house, fumbling with the door before it swung open to reveal his valet, Joseph, standing with a carefully expressionless face. “Lord Richard.”
“Joseph,” Richard acknowledged, stepping carefully over the threshold. He watched the door shut behind him before allowing Joseph to guide him into a front room, where the scent of Viennese coffee wafted from a pot. “I had an excellent evening, Joseph.”
“I had gathered as much, sir, when you did not return home,” Joseph remarked, gently settling Richard onto a low divan. “I can also deduce that you discovered amiable companionship to fill your hours.”
“Of course, I did. Viennese women are very welcoming, you know,” Richard grinned, feeling warm and slightly relaxed as he slouched in the seat and watched Joseph fussing around with the coffee and a tray of small finger foods. “You should have joined me, Joseph, sought your own delightful company for the evening.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Someone must mind the house while you’re away,” Joseph replied with a polite smile.
“But you don’t always need to watch the house or watch over me. That’s the point of traveling!” Richard gestured expansively. “New experiences, new locations, new things to see, and people to meet—travel is an adventure, Joseph!”
He smirked at his valet. “And I chose you to come with me on this glorious venture. You should be pleased and enjoy the experience.”
“If you say so, my lord,” Joseph replied, handing him a cup of strong and fragrant Viennese coffee. Richard took it, sipping cautiously.
“You know, you make a stunning cup of coffee. Viennese coffee, at that,” Richard complimented. He blew gently on the dark liquid before taking another sip, feeling the strong, bitter taste wake him up and clear his mind slightly.
“You have another letter from home, sir,” Joseph said, proffering the morning missives, with the envelope bearing his father’s official seal prominently on top.
“Probably another scolding from Father or Mother, whoever happens to be more offended by my little jaunt across the continent at the moment,” Richard shook his head and set the mail aside for the moment, focusing on the plate Joseph handed him.
“It has His Grace’s official seal on it,” Joseph pointed out, eyeing the envelope.
“That only means the old man is feeling a bit more fussed than usual,” Richard waved a fork at the envelope. “They’d like me to act more like my older brother, Alexander.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t hope to fill his shoes—business management, tiresome social obligations, handling the affairs of the estate. I could never do it. Haven’t got the head for it.”
He gestured to the rented house around them as Joseph refilled his coffee cup and placed a fresh pastry on his plate. “This… this is what being a Duke’s son is about. Taking a chance to see the world—the shores of Scotland, the vineyards of France, the churches of Rome, not to mention the mountains of the Swiss Alps and the beer halls of Germany. I’ve been to so many places, and I’ll see more yet.”
Joseph shrugged lightly, a small smile playing over his features, though he kept his overall expression respectful. “The benefits of being a second son, my lord. One must serve to carry the family.”
“And thank God above it’s not me!” Richard toasted his valet. “I get to fulfill all of my wishes to travel, with you by my side.” He rose and thumped his valet on the shoulder. “I’ll wager you never thought you’d be seeing the world when you applied to be a gentleman’s valet.”
“No, sir, I confess I didn’t,” Joseph relaxed and smiled a little more. “And I have quite enjoyed the journey at your side. However, I do feel one ought not to ignore news from home, whether Duke’s son or valet.”
Richard huffed and dropped back onto the seat. “All right then. I suppose I’ll have no peace until I’ve read Father’s latest scold. Of course, if I don’t read and reply, the next one will be twice as vitriolic,” he said, picking up the letter.
As Richard grasped the envelope, he felt an unusual weight to it. Upon closer examination, he noticed that the wax seal adorning it was darker than usual, almost black in hue. Perplexed, he pondered whether his father’s preferred sealing wax had been marred or if some soot had inadvertently found its way onto the wax. Perhaps the long journey had taken its toll, though it seemed strange that the parchment of the envelope was unmarred if that were the case. With a nonchalant shrug, he accepted the letter opener Joseph handed him and carefully severed the wax seal.
To his surprise, the letter was remarkably short for a scolding from his father. Richard frowned again, then flicked the letter open and began to read.

To My Son, Richard Wilmont:

I must interrupt your current wanderings and implore your immediate return to England. Allow me to be frank, Richard, for there is no room for ambiguity.
With great solemnity, I must convey the devastating news

of your elder brother Alexander’s untimely demise. During a recent hunting excursion, his horse stumbled, causing him to be thrown from the saddle with great force. Unfortunately, he suffered a fatal injury, breaking both his back and his neck. Despite the best efforts of those present, he passed away shortly thereafter.

Regrettably, circumstances prevent me from delaying the funeral arrangements to accommodate your return. Thus, I must bear the responsibility of explaining your absence. Nevertheless, I implore you to acknowledge the inescapable truth that the weighty responsibilities of the Dukedom now rest upon your shoulders. Therefore, I command you, my son, to expedite your journey back to England without delay.

I beseech you to make haste upon receiving this letter, for my heart is burdened with sorrow in anticipation of your return.

Your Father,
Gerard Wilmont, Duke of Ashbourne

Richard read the letter once, then again, his heart pounding in his ears as he stared at the familiar handwriting, hoping against hope that the words would change. But they remained the same.
His older brother, Alexander, was dead.
The paper slipped from his nerveless fingers, fluttering to the ground like a dying bird.
“My lord?” Joseph’s voice seemed to come from a distant place.
Richard struggled to find his voice. Everything felt numb, wrapped in cotton and shrouded in a thick, heavy haze.
“Richard?” The unusual use of his name, coupled with the unexpected touch on his shoulder, jolted Richard out of the gray mist that had enveloped him. He blinked and looked up at Joseph’s concerned face.
Whatever expression he wore caused Joseph’s eyes to widen, and the valet crouched in front of him. “My Lord…may I inquire as to what has happened?”
Richard swallowed hard and managed to force the words past the boulders lodged in his throat. “Pack our belongings and make arrangements for our immediate return to England and Ashbourne by the fastest means possible.”
“Your father has commanded your return?”
The words threatened to elicit a hysterical reaction from Richard—laughter, tears, or screams. He couldn’t decide. What finally emerged was a soft, broken sentence. “He’s dead.”
Joseph froze. “Lord Richard?” A soft, stunned pause. “Lord Gerard is dead?”
“Not my father.” Each word felt like a struggle to utter, suffocated by a cloud of grief.
Richard sat on the low divan, the cooling coffee nearly forgotten at his elbow, contemplating how the world had changed in a matter of minutes.
When he had entered the house, he had been brimming with joy, perceiving a world filled with color, excitement, and boundless possibilities.
Now, everything appeared gray, cold, and lifeless. The air itself felt heavy upon his shoulders as the weight of the position he had been content to avoid settled upon him, shrouded in a cloak of grief.
Richard bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to focus. There would be ample time—perhaps too much—to mourn during the journey, to ponder what it meant to be his father’s heir. For now, arrangements had to be made, and a response had to be written.
A touch on his shoulder drew his attention back to the parlor and to Joseph, who watched him with concerned eyes. “My lord, who has passed away?”
He took a deep breath, meeting his valet’s gaze, his heart heavy and his father’s written words weighing on his shoulders like leaden burdens. “My brother, Alexander, is dead.”

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