Prologue The Tower, Pembrook Castle, Yorkshire Winter, 1844 Tonight was the night they would die. At fourteen, Sebastian Easton, the eighth Duke of Keswick, wished he could be brave about it, could face death with the stoicism and courage his father would have expected and demanded of him, but he was so scared, his mouth so dry, he couldn’t even work up enough spittle to fling as an insult at whoever came for him. Within the ancient tower, no fireplace provided a homey atmosphere, but even if one had been built into the stone wall, he doubted that his uncle—Lord David Easton—would have graced them with a fire. He’d provided no blankets to ward off the bitter wind that whistled between the bars at the window. They had nothing except the clothes they’d been wearing when they were escorted to the tower for “their own protection,” as soon as all the mourners had left following their father’s internment in the family mausoleum that morning. He supposed his uncle was hoping they’d catch their death, and thus spare him the bother of killing them. But as Sebastian gazed out the tiny window, he could see no moon, only stars. It was an excellent night for making three troublesome lads disappear. “I’m hungry,” Rafe muttered. “I don’t see why we can’t eat the mutton stew.”