A Secret Consequence For The Viscount

at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.

This book is dedicated to Linda Fildew, my wonderful and irreplaceable editor, who has been with me right from the start.

Thanks for knowing when to give me a push to try new things.

Contents

Cover (#u3d13f6b5-d013-5a6c-bf5f-80de5155a231)

Back Cover Text (#u495d612d-cc2e-5988-b0fc-8f1f53b6b3e0)

Introduction (#ud9832f2b-57d4-5032-9a50-f9bda049cd79)

Author Note (#u1f7e8a86-4853-56e4-a029-89c32d1cc75f)

Title Page (#u403222cf-fc2c-5979-8a4b-2cd847820f74)

About the Author (#u729ec307-f37d-5d02-a1e5-780bba680c3f)

Dedication (#ubd2f85f2-df13-5a27-9007-565a8e0d49f5)

Prologue (#ua18a4ecf-e7d9-59f3-9919-b6fb7607a28d)

Chapter One (#ue94bcf33-f62d-5440-940b-701d594a1d27)

Chapter Two (#u0cfd6ec9-038a-5ba5-bc8c-93fee012e5bd)

Chapter Three (#u76b828c8-7695-5baa-92ec-00e0870416b6)

Chapter Four (#u5ee90698-bcef-5f90-8510-68910daaa1c6)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#uc6f3cb2f-6692-534e-ae95-b650301180d6)

James River, Virginia—1818

He was bone-weary and cold and had been for a long time now.

He could feel it in his hands and heart and in the fury wrapped around each intake of breath, fear raw against the sound of the river.

Once he knew he had been different. Such knowledge sent a shaft of pain through him that was worse than anything else imaginable, an elusive certainty drifting on the edge of misunderstanding.

He swore as he lowered his body into the water, closing his eyes against the sting of cold. With the hand that still had feeling in it he grabbed at the rushes and steadied movement. He was here somewhere, the man who had slashed at him with a blade. He could feel his presence, close now, a shadow catching at space between darkness, barely visible. He held no weapon except for his wits, no way of protecting himself save for the years of desperation honed in distance. He couldn’t remember ever feeling safe.

The voice came unexpectedly and close.

‘Nicholas Bartlett? Are you there?’

The sound had him turning his head. For more or for less he knew not which. The name was familiar, its syllables distinct as they ran together into something that made a terrible and utter sense.

He wanted to stop the sudden onslaught of memories, each thread reforming itself into more, building a picture, words that pulled at the spinning void of his life and anchored him back into truth. A truth that lay above comprehension and disbelief.

More words came from the mouth of his stalker, moving before him, as he raised steel under a dull small moon.

‘Vitium et Virtus.’

A prayer or a prophesy? A forecast of all that was to come or the harbinger of that which had been?

‘No.’ His own voice was suddenly certain as he shot out of the water to meet his fate, fury fuelling him. He hardly felt the slice of the knife against the soft bones of his face. He was fearless in his quest for life and as the curve of his assailant’s neck came into his hands he understood a primal power that did away with doubt and gave him back hope. He felt the small breakage of bone and saw surprise in the dark bulging eyeballs under moonlight. The hot breath on the raised skin of his own forearm slowed and cooled as resistance changed into flaccidity. Life lost into death with barely a noise save the splash of a corpse as it was taken by the wide flowing James to sink under the blackness, a moment’s disturbance and then calm, the small ridges slipping into the former patterns of the river.

He sat down on the bank in the wet grass and placed his head between his knees, both temples aching with the movement.

Vitium et Virtus.

Nicholas Bartlett.

He knew the words, knew this life, knew the name imbued into each and every part of him.