Justin had been one of those bastards. As a lad, he’d been tall, dark, and leanly muscled, just as Sir Oswald had been. He’d also possessed Sir Oswald’s distinctive gray eyes—as stormy as the fog over the Devon sea.

Alex had been blessed with many of the same features. Unlike Justin, however, Alex had never seen a scrap of proof that Sir Oswald was his father. He had only his instincts to guide him. Instincts that had told him, from a young age, that Justin must be his brother.

Since coming to Lower Hawley, Alex had been thinking of Justin more frequently. He’d been thinking of Tom, too. Of how he’d looked when last Alex had seen him; beaten, bloody, and betrayed. And of Neville, lying on his sickbed in the orphanage, unable to formulate even the simplest words without a struggle.

“I’m sorry,” Alex had whispered to him. “But I have to go. I have to get away from here.”

He’d been consumed by an almost feverish sense of urgency. There had been no time to wait on wiser counsel. No time to work things out with Justin or Tom. Alex had known how the story ended for boys like him. They were disposable—and he was more disposable than most. There was nothing special about him. He hadn’t Justin’s nobility, or Tom’s razor-sharp mind. He had only his good looks. A handsome face and figure that had ended up doing him far more harm than good.

He’d known then that, if he wanted saving, he would have to save himself. Even if that meant burning all of his bridges behind him. At the time, he’d believed he had no choice. All he’d been able to think of was getting away from there.

And he had got away. As far away as a boy could get with one hundred pounds in stolen gold coins.

It had turned out to be very far away indeed. So far that Alex had almost been able to erase the past. But the past was never really gone. Not when one had done what he had. The memories clung to him like ghosts. The specters of Justin, Tom, and Neville.

Laura had said he was looking for a family. But he’d had a family once. Had them, and thrown them away. Sacrificed them. All to save himself.

In his darkest moments, he’d begun to wonder if it had been worth it.

Shortly after eight o’clock, Squire Talbot and the rest of their party made their way to Cecil Square and the imposing stone-faced building which housed Margate’s public Assembly Rooms. The entrance was flanked with Doric columns through which ladies and gentlemen of every class poured into the ballroom.

Mirrors and stuccoed decorations adorned the walls, and in the corner a small but enthusiastic orchestra played reels, quadrilles, and waltzes.