Prologue From the Journal of Lucian Langdon They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians. I have no memory of it, yet it has always seemed to me that I should. After all, I was supposedly there, but only if I truly am who the world recognizes me to be. The Earl of Claybourne. It is not a pleasant thing to always doubt one’s identity. I often study the portrait of my father hanging above the massive fireplace in the grand library of my London residence and catalogue the similarities in our appearance. The hair—black as the soot that lined the inside of a chimney. The eyes—the shade of pewter that brought a fair price from fences. The nose—a slender knife-like shape, a fine-honed blade, aristocratic. Although that similarity might be merely wishful thinking on my part. It’s difficult to tell if our noses are truly the same, as mine was severely broken at an early age, the result of an encounter that left me nearly dead. I have always attributed my escape from death’s clutches to Jack Dodger, who offered himself up as a target for the abuse being delivered to me. Things went much worse for him. Not that we ever speak of it. When you grow up on the