With luck, Sophia would be thought to have perished, as he had planned when giving her necklace to the maid. Luke had no regrets over his part in Sophia’s survival. Seldom had he met a more likeable, courteous, sympathetic young woman. He had enjoyed her company in London, and in the hours Jack had been charged in escorting her hither and thither, so had he.

In the light of day, far away from the murder scene, it almost seemed an horrific dream. Cautiously, for he must, Luke took a breath of air and looked about.

Mid spring. It used to be his favourite time of year: flower-sprigged verges and hedges; benevolent sun; alluring skies and vibrant clouds; wildlife astir; promises afloat; treasures beckoning. Feet away was a hump-backed stone bridge coated with emerald-green algae, atop a swift river. Two pink-faced children were sitting on the lush grassy bank playing with a ginger kitten and a piece of string. A delightful scene. Something his sister would long to capture on canvas. But Luke gleaned no pleasure from it.

Nothing held any value, had any reason or prospect for him, not since the bitter quarrel with his elder, adopted, brother, when reality had broken in, mocking him as to what he truly was. Heir to a title and a prosperous estate maybe, he was also a cripple, lacking in manhood, denied the coveted regimental career his father and brother had taken for granted, doomed to light tasks and writing reports. Half measures, ultimate non-accomplishment.

A long day’s ride and by nightfall he would be home to familiar sights, familiar pursuits, monotony and predictability. Home, to the family bosom, to his parents’ blissfully happy marriage, to siblings with two healthy arms going about their usual splendid business.

He would be expected to croon over Kane’s child. Damn Kane, for being so fulfilled. Kane had his own expanding farm and a wife whose free spirit suited him perfectly. Damn Kane, for pointing out that day he could have something similar if he stopped behaving like a spoiled brat and channelled his restless energy into something more fitting than gambling and womanizing. Kane, whose real parents had been an unmarried brothel bitch and a deserting wayfarer, had no right to speak so. Luke would not tolerate a recurrence.

Then there was Olivia, the elder to him by one year. She also had everything she wanted, including a doting husband who indulged her foolish passion for painting. And sixteen-year-old Kelynen, his father’s favourite, who toted an annoying boisterous dog everywhere she went. Beatrice would be being Beatrice: drinking, soothsaying, smelling, swearing. There would be the same boring obedient servants and submissive tenants. The same batch of young ladies ruthlessly parading their accomplishments before him in the hope of becoming his wife. A return to all the old ways and soul-draining sameness.