Read an Excerpt - The official author site of Delphine Ross

PURCHASE

Available in ebook and trade softcover.

PROLOGUE

August 1859

On the sultriest day London had seen all year, Virgil Sydenham, Viscount of Sunderland, was locked in an artist’s closet.

This hadn’t been Virgil’s intention. He’d only gone inside the closet to steal a moment of solitude before rejoining his father and mother, who’d been arguing again. Hiding had become a habit since Virgil’s tenth birthday some months earlier: go someplace quiet where no one could find him, preferably with a thick wood door. Breathe deeply until he felt able to confront the world anew, before anyone noticed his absence.

Never before had the door locked behind him.

Prior to this occurrence, Virgil and his parents had been visiting the artist who owned the closet, a certain Neil Bartham. Virgil’s father, the Earl of Sunderland, had engaged Bartham to paint Virgil and his mother as a surprise for her birthday. Bartham immediately dazzled Virgil with his looks, charm, and talent—all elements Virgil believed he lacked. (Even at the age of ten, Virgil held few illusions about himself.) As for Bartham, he was a tall man of perhaps five and thirty years. He wore a peacock-blue jacket that had little similarity to the Savile Row tailoring Virgil’s father favored. Bartham bore thick chestnut hair, a broad smile, and an easy, engaging manner. (Also unlike Virgil’s father.) Bartham possessed a large family—Virgil overheard several children playing in the lush garden outside the studio, which was in a wing of the artist’s home—and a fair-haired wife, who doted on the artist as though he was the sun and she the moon. Clearly, Neil Bartham was someone fortune favored.

However, his mother had not at all been pleased when the earl’s birthday gift was unfurled. Her mouth pursed, her eyes widened. Virgil sussed there was something uncouth about Neil Bartham for all his pleasantness. Something disreputable.

“You do know his wife is an adulteress?” his mother hissed once Bartham stepped away to request refreshments for them. “The newspapers call her the Muse of Scandal. She was married to an art critic, Ethan Sutton, when she ran off with Bartham—”

“Her marriage to Sutton was annulled years ago, Eliza,” his father interrupted in a tight voice. “Consider Bartham’s talent, darling. He’ll paint a masterpiece worthy of you.”

“Talent is no substitute for moral rectitude, Richard.” She stamped her silk-clad foot. “I do wish you’d warned me before we ambulated here on such a hot day . . . ”

Once his mother’s voice began to rise, Virgil slipped from the studio toward the hallway. Toward the artist’s closet, which turned out to be the first door on the left.

No one noticed.

The closet was filled with several tall canvases and a folded easel. Enough room for a boy to hide. But once the door locked behind Virgil, he understood the worst: he was trapped. Yet he didn’t panic despite the smoldering heat and the pervasive stench of turpentine. Instead, he felt an odd gratitude. A locked closet was an excuse for him to escape the arguing. The strife. The sense of being perpetually underwhelming to his parents.

I suppose I should yell for help, he thought. He didn’t.

A moment passed. Another.

Outside the closet, Virgil heard a scuttle of voices. Not his parents, thankfully—perhaps they thought he’d gone to play with the artists’ children. Speaking of which, Virgil heard a young boy lisp in a high-pitched tone, “One, two, three, four . . . ”

A game of Hide and Seek. Well, hopefully no one would find Virgil until he was ready.

But then the closet door opened and shut—and he was no longer alone.

A slender body slammed against him in the dark. A girl, judging by the flounces of her diaphanous skirts, which made his skin itch. Some sort of fluffed up netting.

“Musa, is that you?” the girl hissed under her breath. “I called the closet!”

“Not Musa,” Virgil answered, trying not to stammer. He’d never been so close to a girl before. Not like this. She smelled of floral soap and newly mowed grass.

The girl pulled away though her skirts still brushed his legs; the closet wasn’t meant for two. “So sorry! Zeus, you must think me rude. I didn’t know the closet was occupied.”

“It is rather.”

The girl let out an odd laugh. Embarrassed, that’s what she was—this was an emotion Virgil knew too well. Perhaps to compensate, she released a soft torrent of words. “You must be the boy posing for Papa. He mentioned you and your family were scheduled for today. A large oil painting. Told us to behave—” another odd laugh “—well, not like this, mind. That’s why we were playing in the garden, but it got so hot. It is rather crowded in here, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll leave—”

“You can’t leave,” Virgil managed to interject. “Door’s locked.”

“I forgot about that.” The girl let out a sigh, skirts rustling. “Yes, the lock is fussy. I suppose Papa hasn’t repaired it yet. No reason to panic—someone will find us soon.” More brightly, “Hopefully only after I win the game.”

Some distance outside the closet, Virgil heard the young boy shriek, “Ready or not, here I come!”

“Shush!” the girl whispered.

Virgil whispered in turn, “Who are you?”

After several moments of silence, she murmured, “I’m Allegra Jane Bartham. But everyone calls me Angela.”

“Do you look like an angel?” Virgil couldn’t resist asking. He’d hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Angela when she dashed into the closet. She’d been so swift.

In the distance, a shriek of laughter. Someone’s hiding place must have been discovered.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Her bashful tone offered all the confirmation Virgil needed.

Several yards outside the closet door, slow footsteps drew near. Angela grabbed Virgil’s wrist.

“They’re coming!” she mouthed against his ear.

“Who is?”

“My sisters and brother.”

Virgil felt an unexpected pang. He had a brother once—well, he couldn’t think of him now. “Aren’t they hiding too?”

“I suspect they’ve all been found. But I want to see how long it takes them to find me. Shush!”

A moment later, the footsteps turned away; Angela released his hand after letting out a long breath.

“That was close! I suspect it was Musa,” she whispered. “She knows I’m here, but won’t betray me.”

“Musa’s your sister?”

He sensed Angela’s vigorous nod in the dark. “She’s the eldest. Bossy.”

Virgil knew all about that. His brother had been seven years older. He’d been the dominant one, but not in a bad way. Virgil had admired Robert so much; all of life’s gifts seemed centered in him.

But again, Virgil didn’t want to think of this. Not now. Not during this unexpected encounter with this peculiar yet enticing angel girl.

“What of your other siblings?” he asked.

“They’re twins.”

“Identical?”

“No, though they resemble Papa. Their names are Lyra and Theo. They’re only four. Babies really.” A pause. “Anyway, who are you?”

Virgil held back a stutter, as he often did when anxious. “It doesn’t matter.”

And here was the sorry truth. He, Virgil Sydenham, Viscount of Sunderland, didn’t matter to the world save for the title he’d inherit when his father passed to his eternal reward (though Virgil prayed this wouldn’t be for many, many years). He never wanted to become earl—that honor was meant for Robert, not him. Virgil would have been content in a humble country estate filled with fragrant flowers and gentle animals, far from anyone who might find him lacking.

“Surely you have a name,” Angela prodded.

“Virgil Sydenham,” he finally answered. “Viscount of Sunderland.”

“Oh.”

Angela exhaled the syllable. Virgil cringed, imagining her thoughts. You’re an aristocrat. Above my station. What if she fawned over him to gain social advantage? Such insincerity was all too common among the ton and beyond.

Before Angela could say another word, the closet door burst opened. Virgil’s mother at her most distressed.

“There you are, Virgil!” she cried. “I had no idea where you’d gone—I was worried something happened!” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Angela. “Who are you.”

His mother’s words were a demand, not a question.

“Angela. Well, Miss Allegra Jane Bartham, ma’am. I’m the artist’s daughter.”

Virgil cringed as he recalled his mother’s earlier tirade. “You do know Bartham’s wife is an adulteress? The newspapers call her the Muse of Scandal.“ He prayed Angela hadn’t overheard.

“‘You are to address me as my lady,” his mother corrected. “I’m the Countess of Sunderland, not your governess.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil made out Angela’s graceful curtsey. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“And why are you and my son in a closet, Miss Allegra Bartham? You led him astray?”

“No, my lady.”

To Virgil’s surprise, Angela didn’t appear cowed by his mother’s displeasure. He supposed she was used to judgment, given the gossip about her parents. Still, he recognized his mother’s temper rising like the heat outside in the garden.

Perhaps Angela sensed this too, for she quickly added, “Don’t be angry with the viscount, my lady. The closet locked behind us. An accident, that’s all.”

His mother’s mouth pursed. “Enough. Both of you, come.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Angela offered a hand to help Virgil out—he’d been wedged in a corner of the closet against the easel—and at last he saw her in the full light of day.

Angela Bartham had long pale hair, like her mother. A lithe figure. About his age, maybe a little younger. Blue eyes. She wore what appeared to be an enormous lavender tutu and ballet slippers. A costume glittering with sparkles. Was she a dancer then? Or just dressed like one?

She took him in similarly, her soft pink lips curving.

“I had no idea what you looked like in the dark,” she said.

With this, Virgil’s stomach dropped. He knew he was plump. Ruddy-cheeked. Rude red hair. Freckled. In other words, everything Angela Bartham wasn’t. For she was exquisite. Yes, that was the only way to describe her; he imagined his father using the word in the same way he would for a work of art.

Virgil waited for Angela’s smile to slip into dismay over his awkwardness. But, to his amazement, her expression appeared decidedly sympathetic. He knew she somehow understood all his sorrows and disappointments . . . and, even more miraculously, she cared.

And in that moment, Virgil’s heart expanded in a manner that felt decidedly new.

Still smiling, Angela set her forefinger against her chin. “I know this is forward, but you don’t look like a Virgil to me.”

“His proper address is my lord, Miss Allegra Bartham,” his mother called out over her shoulder. “Virgil is a fine name.”

“That’s true, my lady,” she conceded. To Virgil: “But I’d rather call you Sunny, if I may. Your hair is like the sun before it sets. Warm. Kind. Like you.”

Virgil swore he heard his heart knock against his ribs.

“Sunny then,” he agreed. “Thank you, Miss Allegra.”

“Angela,” she corrected. “Because we’re friends now, aren’t we?” A last curtsey in his mother’s direction. “Well, I should let you go pose for my father. I’ve already taken much of your time.”

And then she skipped away to join her siblings, taking Sunny’s heart with her.

As the years passed and they grew into adulthood, Angela proved to be a worthy guardian of his heart. She and Sunny became the best of friends; his heart grew in devotion despite his mother’s disapproval. As children, they’d spend spring mornings walking about the rose gardens of Green Park, winter afternoons reading novels aloud in her sitting room. His heart expanded further when he escorted her to the ballet, where he watched her rapturous face drink in Giselle, her favorite. After he learned to play the piano, he became her only audience when she danced alone in Neil’s studio and, on several memorable occasions, under the full moon on summer evenings, when he thought his heart would burst from bliss.

Alas, some things cannot last. Thirteen years after their first meeting in a closet, Angela would break Sunny’s heart.

He would not take it well.

PURCHASE

Available in ebook and trade softcover.

Add to Goodreads