Prologue
Prologue
London, December 5, 1814
“Please, you cannot do this!” The hoarse pleading echoed in the silence of the hall.
Seventeen-year-old Martin Banks hid in the shadows, watching his father plead for mercy with Edwin Hartwell in the foyer of their small townhouse on Gracechurch Street. Edwin’s tall stature, broad shoulders, and cold face cast fear into Martin’s young heart. His twin sister, Helen, clutched his arm as they peered around the curtain’s edge from their hidden vantage point.
“I can and I will.” Edwin’s face was hard as he stared at William Banks. “You owe me ten thousand pounds, and I’m calling in that debt. If you cannot pay, you shall be out within the week.”
“Out?” Their mother, a lovely woman with a delicate constitution, leaned heavily against the banister for support. She should have been resting upstairs, not facing this brute next to her husband. Martin wanted to go to her, but he was frozen with a childish fear. If his father was afraid of Edwin, then Martin knew he had no chance to stand against him.
“Yes, madam.” Edwin’s reply was cold enough to ice over the river Thames.
“Oh, please, you can’t. What about the children?” She held a hand out beseechingly to Edwin, but he shrugged off her touch and stepped back.
“If you had cared at all about your children, you would not have made such a risky investment. I loaned you the money, and I am owed my due.”
Martin’s throat tightened, and he curled his hands in fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
“I’ll get you the money,” William said, rushing to reassure Edwin.
“You may try, but none of the banks will extend you credit.”
“They might,” his father argued. “I have not fallen completely out of favor with them.”
“We shall see. If not, you will be cast out in seven days.” Edwin set his hat on his head, and the butler opened the door for him. As the man stepped out into the night, Martin stared at the his back, burning the sight into his memory forever.
Edwin Hartwell, the man who ruined their family.
“William, what shall we do? If the banks won’t help us…” his mother began.
“I still have friends at Drummonds. I’ll go there first thing tomorrow.”
“Please, I’m so worried. It is so close to Christmas. What if we cannot afford another place to live?” His mother hugged his father, and Martin’s heart swelled with hope. Surely his father would be able to do something. He had to; they needed a home to live in.
“Everything will be all right, Mary. You’ll see. There’s bound to be some rooms somewhere, even if we must move to a less respectable area of town.” His father let her go, and she brushed away a tear, her hands trembling.
“Go upstairs and rest. You’ve had too much to worry about today.” William’s eyes were dark with concern. Martin was worried too. In the last few days, his mother had grown weaker than she ever had been before.
She started for the stairs but suddenly collapsed. Her body crumpled to the floor.
“Mary!” his father shouted and rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms.
“Mother!” Martin fled the shadows and joined him, Helen right behind him.
His mother lay like a fallen angel in his father’s embrace, her lashes fluttering like the frantic wings of a butterfly trying to stay aloft in the midst of a storm. Her ashen face, pale lips, and cloudy eyes warned Martin of a truth he had never wished to see—that one’s parents were not invincible.
“Fetch the doctor!” William shouted.
Martin grabbed his coat from an anxious footman and ran into the street, calling for a hackney. The doctor they knew lived only a few streets away, but Martin feared even that short distance would be too far. He’d seen his mother’s face, pale and her limbs going slack. He had seen death.
Edwin Hartwell had stolen more than Martin’s home—he’d taken his mother’s life, and someday Edwin would pay.
