Prologue

1804

Paddington Lands

For the first time officially, Keaton Deverall could call himself Duke of Westvale.

He was eighteen, and in control of the Dukedom that he had inherited at the age of fifteen, which had finally passed into his hands.

“Westvale—now that I can call you it—when do you think your first trip as Duke should begin?” boomed Edric Deverall, brother to Keaton’s late father and formerly regent Duke while Keaton was in his minority.

“Westvale…” Keaton whispered in a dreamy voice, leaning back in his seat. “It still does not seem real. I would not have you refer to me as Your Grace, though, Uncle. I cannot have honorifics from a man who dandled me on his knee when I was an infant.”

Edric guffawed. “Enjoy the title, old chap. Revel in it. With the Dukedom comes a great deal of freedom. Freedom to travel being the most important for the newest member of Palin’s gentlemen’s club for dromomaniacs.”

Keaton laughed at the description. It was apt. For as long as he could remember, he had dreamed over the maps in his father’s library. Geography had been the one subject at which he had truly excelled, and any opportunity to travel with his father or Uncle Edric had been seized excitedly.

His ash blonde hair fell to his shoulders, framing a long, noble face with strong brows and a bold nose above a straight, resolute jaw. His eyes were the softest part of his face, light grey with flecks of green. He put his booted feet up on the seat of the carriage in which they both rode, letting the swaying motion rock him gently.

Here’s to you, Father, for instilling in me a passion for discovery and exploration. And here’s to dear Uncle Edric for guiding me as duke-in-waiting.

“As soon as possible,” he answered Edric’s question. “Once I have unrestricted access to the finances, I can begin looking at the shipping lists and the overland routes through Europe. I have a passion to see the Russian Steppes. Or how about India?”

“I’m not one for traveling, as you know, Keaton. But if you want to go so far…”

“Yes! India! A ship around the Cape and up the east coast of Africa. That is exactly how I will begin—”

He was cut off when the carriage suddenly veered wildly before crashing to a halt. Both men were tossed from their seats. Shouts reached them from outside, and the screaming of panicked horses. Over it all came the flat crack of a pistol.

Highwaymen! It must be! And one of them has discharged at least one of his pistols. Pray that the blackguard only has one. It will take time to reload.

The door was snatched open to reveal a cloaked shape with a black mask over the lower half of his face and a black, tri-corn hat. A pistol was levelled at him, but Keaton kicked out, knocking the weapon aside and sending the man to the ground.

“Come, Uncle!” Keaton grunted, extending a hand. “Now’s our chance!”

He stumbled to his feet, peering out of the carriage door. Two men on horseback blocked the road, one of them reloading a pistol. The other was pointing his at the driver. Keaton leaped down and grabbed the pistol from the man he had kicked from the carriage.

“Edric! Come on!” he barked again.

Edric was significantly older than Keaton and moved slowly. Too slow for the youth whose blood was now well and truly up.

“There’s the Duke!” one of the brigands called.

Keaton’s blood went cold.

The door on the other side of the carriage opened, and a hand grabbed at Edric.

“Not him!” the same voice called out, “the younger one!”

Keaton knew now that this was a targeted attack. No opportunistic robbers here. He leveled the pistol, and the man who had grabbed for his uncle dropped out of sight.

“Go, boy!” Edric yelled, scrambling out of the carriage and onto the floor, “I will only slow you down!”

“I am not leaving you, Uncle, and I’ll make a ghost of the first man who gets too close!”

He was backing away from the carriage, one hand on his uncle’s arm, pulling him along. Keaton heard a movement from behind and whirled, pointing the pistol. A horse surged forward, rounding a bend in the lane. It pulled a trap, its driver suddenly standing up and wrenching the reins to the side, seeing the imminent collision in front of him.

The wheel struck Keaton as the trap flipped over. He spun to the ground, feeling a sickening pain in his shoulder. For a moment, there was silence. Highwaymen and victims alike were stunned by the unexpected appearance of the trap. The impact had driven the air from Keaton’s lungs, leaving him unable to do anything but gasp and writhe, desperate to claw air back into his lungs.

He saw a man pulling himself from beneath the trap. Heard the highwaymen springing into motion. There was a bang, a searing heat, and a crushing pain at the back of Keaton’s head. As consciousness fled, he thought he heard a single, gasped name.

“Joe…!”

Then he was aware of nothing.

Chapter One

10 years later

Silverton Estate

“Oh, Georgie! Will it do, do you think? I was certain it would, but now that I am wearing it, I just do not know!”

Amelia Vexley, daughter of Viscount Silverton, stood before the full-length mirror in her dressing room. She had tried on the dress many times during its conception by a French modiste of high repute, but this was the day of the ball, and with it came doubts.

“Amelia, you are simply bedazzling. You will be the belle of the ball, I promise it. And what is more, you would still be if you arrived wearing an old coal sack.”

Georgia stood behind her, looking at her cousin in the mirror. Green Vexley eyes met her own blue Roseton eyes. They were family by virtue of Clarissa Vexley, sister to Georgia’s mother and wife to Amelia’s father. There was a hint of common ancestry in their looks, both with heart-shaped faces and button noses.

But it was there the similarities ended.

While Georgia was intrepid and adventurous, her cousin was timid and afraid of most things. Now she looked to Georgia for reassurance, biting her lip and reaching for Georgia’s hand where it rested on her shoulder.

“What utter rot!” Clarissa exclaimed from the doorway, “whatever are you suggesting? Attend Almack’s in a sack?”

She had her daughter’s prettiness but spoiled by a thin, lipless mouth and a haughty expression. As usual, she had heard half a conversation and jumped to conclusions. Typically, those conclusions contained some negativity about Georgia.

“I was merely saying that Amelia would be pretty no matter what she wore,” Georgia added, patiently.

“Indeed. Well, there we are in agreement. And is that what you are wearing this evening?”

Clarissa looked Georgia up and down. Georgia colored, refusing to look at herself. She knew the gown she wore, knew it well. It was not new, far from it. The only reason it had lasted this long was that there were precious few opportunities for her to wear it. Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Clarissa did not ordinarily include her in their social events.

“I could not afford a new dress, Aunt…” Georgia stopped herself just in time, seeing the anger flare in Aunt Clarissa’s eyes, “…Lady Silverton,” she finished.

“And that is a comment on the generous allowance we give you?” Aunt Clarissa asked in a brittle voice with chin raised.

“Not at all. I am most grateful for what I receive,” Georgia smiled, doing her best to appear meek.

She knew that her cheeks were flushed and hoped it came across as shame. Anger was the source of the heat, in reality. Anger at the injustice of the world and those who sought to exploit it. Her Aunt and Uncle fit squarely into that camp.

“You should be. Your feckless brother and my equally feckless sister left no provision for you, and you have been a burden to my household ever since your brother ran off and abandoned you.”

“Mother!” Amelia exclaimed, whirling around, eyes wide.

“Be silent!” Aunt Clarissa snapped, pointing a bony finger at her daughter.

Amelia’s eyes became downcast, and she clasped her hands in anguished silence.

Once, Aunt Clarissa would never have spoken so cruelly in front of her daughter, least of all about Georgia. But as the years crept by, her bitterness toward Georgia and her mother was no longer so carefully hidden.

“I suppose your gown will do if you do not draw too much attention to yourself,” she pressed on at her niece. “Your betrothal to Lord Halstead is all arranged anyway. You, at least, do not need to worry about attracting a husband.”

She stared at Georgia and found her icy glare met by fiery determination from her niece.

I should very much like to tell her exactly what I think about this plan to marry me off to some obnoxious old man. But I am reliant upon their charity. What can I do? Too much defiance and I could end up at the poor house, living off the parish.

Georgia dropped her eyes, too, and heard a sniff of satisfaction from her Aunt.

“The dress is satisfactory, Amelia. What matters is the price—it is cost that impresses the ton, not your taste.”

“Yes, Mama,” Amelia nodded meekly.

Aunt Clarissa nodded too and then turned and marched to the door. She stopped, not looking back until one of the girls ran ahead and opened it for her. It was Georgia. She waited until she could no longer hear her aunt’s footsteps and then slammed the door shut. Amelia jumped, then giggled, hands to her mouth.

“I would not dare!” she whispered.

“I should not dare,” Georgia sighed, throwing herself into an armchair, “Aunt Clarissa would have me cast out in a moment.”

Amelia rushed to her, dropping to her knees before her cousin, taking her hands.

“Don’t say such things, Georgie!” she gasped, using the pet name she’d always had for Georgia. “Mother is hard, yes, but that is just her way. She would never cast out her own sister’s child.”

Georgia grimaced. “Of course not,” she lied, squeezing Amelia’s warm fingers, “I am just being dramatic.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “I know it must be difficult, and I don’t think that mother and father should remind you as often as they do of your… circumstances. But they have tried hard to find you a suitable husband. And they would not do that unless they wished you to be happy and settled in a home of your own, would they?”

There was bright innocence in Amelia’s emerald eyes, which Georgia had no desire to quash.

Off their hands is how they would put it. No longer a drain on their household. How it must put a burr under Uncle Benjamin to pay out a dowry for me, though. Assuming he yet chooses to.

She did not know if any allowance had been made for a dowry. Elias’ title, lands, and fortune were held in trust awaiting his return… Or the declaration of his death…

“I suppose they would not at that,” Georgia murmured, lost in that doleful thought for a moment.

“And I know that Lord Emsworth is somewhat…” Amelia tilted her head like a kitten, “set in his ways, but I am sure they would not marry you to a beast. I am sure he is a gentleman and will make an excellent husband.”

An excellent husband for a wife who believed herself to be owned by her husband. Lord Emsworth had expressed just such a view in Georgia’s hearing at their very first meeting.  She kept such thoughts to herself, though, mindful of Amelia’s innocence and protective of it. Sometimes she wished there was someone who wanted to protect her. Perhaps Lord Peter Halstead, Earl of Emsworth, for all his medieval notions, would turn out to be chivalrous.

And perhaps pigs might fly.

She rose, drawing Amelia up with her, and patted her cheek.

“Oh, Milly, you look lovely and will find your dance card filled within minutes of our arrival,” she breathed wistfully, rewarded with a bright, excited smile from her younger cousin.

“I do hope so! I do love dancing. Particularly at Almack’s. It is so delightful a venue!”

Georgia would rather be exploring the city around it, as she had once been certain she would, in her past life. Silverton lay beyond Kensington, a veritable stone’s throw from the city, but she was rarely allowed to venture that far.

Later, as Amelia obediently attended on her mother and father to show how well spent their money had been, Georgia retired to her own rooms.

Silverton Hall was vast, cold, and crowded with servants and dozens of chambers. But upon moving here from her brother’s house, Georgia had been told that, regretfully, the only spare and ‘functional’ bedchamber was one adjoining the servants’ wing; a separate building next to the stables. She suspected that her tiny bedroom had once been used as a storeroom.

She crossed the cobbled yard, nodding, smiling, and asking after the maid who was hurrying in the opposite direction. The girl’s name was Elaine, and she was a relatively new addition to the staff. Georgia made it a point to know the names of all the staff and to show them kindness.

What Aunt Clarissa and Uncle Benjamin did not know was that the cook, Mrs. Pike, who took maternal care over all the staff in her purview, ensured extra helpings to Miss Georgia as a reward—though said extra helpings had become scarce in the past weeks with her wedding drawing nearer. Georgia opened the small door at one end of the servant’s block and descended the narrow stone staircase to her room.

A window had been added high up on one wall, which showed the feet of anyone crossing the stable yard to or from the main house. Georgia would regularly stand on a chair to clean it, ensuring no barrier to daylight. She had rearranged her meager furniture so that the light fell across her bed in the morning.

She went to the stool before her bureau, an old and scarred veteran of the household cast aside by Uncle Benjamin in favor of a newer piece by a local carpenter. Reaching into the neck of her dress, she took out a small key and unlocked the bureau. Within was a neat pile of papers, bound together by string.

A new letter had arrived this morning. Post to Georgia was unusual enough that Uncle Benjamin might have insisted upon reading it. So, Georgia had collected it from Mr. Sobel, the butler, before the morning post had been sent up to the main house. She unfolded it to read its contents again.

Miss Roseton,

It is with the deepest regret that I must decline your request. While such an undertaking is possible and within the sphere of my skills, it would be time-consuming and, in all likelihood, an extremely lengthy operation. I must support both myself and my family, and could not undertake such work for the limited budget that you described. I regret that I know of no other consulting investigators who would work for anything less than three shillings a week. If you believe a crime has been committed, I urge you to consider the services of the Bow Street Runners, who are an excellent organization for the pursuance of criminals and may consider pro-bono work where there is great need.

I wish you nothing but the best of luck in your endeavor

Mr. Aloysius Thorne,

“But how am I to raise the money, Mr. Thorne?” Georgia groaned to herself, pressing her forehead to the bureau’s scarred wood. “Will I gamble that my proposed husband will be sympathetic to my quest to find my brother? Lord Emsworth of all men?”

She felt frustration welling up, manifesting as pricks of tears at the corner of her eyes.

Aunt Clarissa should care! Elias was her nephew. The son of her sister. Why are she and Uncle Benjamin so intent on preventing me from having his disappearance investigated?

A cynical part of her, one that she was not proud of, wondered if they stood to gain financially from Elias’ absence. But that couldn’t be the case. Elias’ land, title, and wealth were held in trust until he either returned or was declared dead legally. And if the latter came to pass, his will would be unsealed, and she would likely inherit.

She wiped her eyes and folded the letter from Mr. Thorne, untying the string holding the others and adding his letter to the bundle.

Another ending. Another disappointment. I must rise above it and try again. I will not give up on you, Eli. I will discover what happened to you. Where you are, or… and I must face it, whether you are alive or dead.

 

Chapter Two

The sound of Almack’s reached Keaton’s hearing before the carriage came to a halt outside.

Certainly before Uncle Edric patted his shoulder and said; “We are here, Keaton, my boy. To your left.”

Keaton had caught the strains of the musicians within the building, tuning their instruments even over the clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles and the jingle and clop of a team of horses. He often wondered how everyone was not aware of the things he was.

He felt the shifting of the carriage on its metal springs as his uncle disembarked ahead of him, felt the air stir against his cheek as the door was opened. With the familiarity of practice, Keaton reached for the door frame and put his foot on the first step. His cane came next, finding the ground precisely where he expected it to be. Then he was stepping onto the pavement.

Anyone watching would not even know he was blind. Keaton would put money on that. But now he was stepping into an unfamiliar place and a deluge of noise, which meant becoming utterly reliant on his Uncle’s guidance.

How tiresome…

“I see your face, Keaton. I know you do not wish to be here, but it really is for your own good. This is where your peers come to see and be seen. This is where a future wife will be found and an heir to Westvale.”

“Hang Westvale!” Keaton snapped sotto voce as his uncle guided his hand to his shoulder.

He immediately regretted it.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he exhaled roughly. “I know you care deeply about Westvale as your brother’s legacy. I did not mean that. I… I am just on edge.”

“Understandable,” Edric said, slightly testily. “I would doubtless be the same in your condition, but we must rise above these tribulations.”

Tribulation was truly an understatement. To lose his sight on the same evening that his life had finally begun, when he had finally taken control of the Dukedom…

Keaton had little memory of that fateful incident a decade past, except for the tinge of gunpowder smoke and a hazy voice. A man’s voice calling out for a Joe, or Joseph, he had since deduced. And something he hadn’t told even his uncle. When he had awoken, there had been a signet ring clutched in his hand. Where it had come from, he did not know, but he felt it was connected to the name and the man who had spoken that name.

Keaton forced a tight, tense smile.

“Lead the way, Uncle. Let the dog see the rabbit, eh?”

Edric snorted at his nephew’s self-deprecating humor and stepped off. Keaton felt the motion and stepped with him. His cane explored the ground in front of him, and his hand told him where his uncle was in relation to himself. Sounds from all around gave a mental image of the position of others.

From ahead came a growing din. The sound that only a large gathering of people could make. Overlaid atop it was the gentle stirrings of a string quartet.

Almack’s Assembly rooms lay before him in all its dark glory, and a ball that he could not fully participate in but would, instead, stand to one side, pretending to appreciate the music while making polite small talk with members of the ton.

Members I have little respect for and no desire to socialize with. But as Uncle Edric says often, I am a custodian of Westvale. I must put it above myself.

He allowed himself to be guided through the Assembly Rooms, exchanging pleasantries with lords and ladies whose names he made a mental note of. He linked those names to the sound of their voices and the scent of their perfumes and colognes. It was a useful parlor trick for a blind man to be able to name someone before they had been formally introduced or before they had even spoken.

He would do his duty for an hour, then excuse himself. Thorne would be waiting just beyond the gardens, and he could finally steal away to speak with him in private.

Another quandary for a blind man was the inability to read. Keaton knew that Uncle Edric would read any correspondence to him and regularly did. But Edric did not approve of Mr. Aloysius Thorne, nor the task he was undertaking on behalf of the grizzled Duke of Westvale. To him, there was little difference between a moment spent dwelling on vengeance and a moment spent dwelling on grief.

After the last ten years spent chasing answers that never came, perhaps his uncle was right.

“May I introduce Her Grace, the Duchess of Exeter,” Edric was saying.

Keaton forced his mind back to the present and away from the mysterious male voice calling out for Joe. Joseph? Jones? Who was the man, and who was he calling out to?

“Your Grace,” a female voice greeted him.

Keaton turned his head in the direction of the voice, gauged its proximity, and anticipated the outstretched hand. He took it smoothly, guessing its location correctly. Bowed, then kissed it.

“Your Grace, thank you for the invitation this evening,” Keaton began smoothly.

“You are most welcome. May I call you Keaton? As we are of equal rank?”

“You may,” Keaton replied, not inquiring as to her name.

“And you may call me Margaret, if you are so inclined,” the Duchess of Exeter said.

Keaton inclined his head gravely.

“I must say, it is remarkable how well you hide it, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the Duchess remarked.

“Hide what?” Keaton asked, already weary of the same old conversation.

“Why, your affliction of course!”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I had quite forgotten,” Keaton said archly, making a show of flapping about his cane, narrowly missing a passing waiter.

Edric cleared his throat suddenly as he made to smother the cane.

“That is to say, my nephew has worked hard to compensate. His hearing and sense of touch in particular are preternaturally sensitive since the accident.”

“Accident? What was the accident? And how could it have such a catastrophic effect?” the Duchess gasped a touch too theatrically.

Keaton knew enough about the workings of the ton to know that this conversation, between two high-ranking nobles, would not be taking place in a vacuum. There would be a constellation of lesser-ranking gentry orbiting them. Some would openly listen. Others pretend not to. Few would actively ignore a conversation between Westvale and Exeter. In addition, he could feel the changes in air currents that spoke of people standing still about them, heard the conversations reduce in volume, the better to eavesdrop.

“I have no memory of it. I woke one day to find myself blind. My uncle, Lord Swinthorpe here, quite possibly knows more about the circumstances than I. It was he who found me after all.”

He spoke loudly for the benefit of all who might be listening. A wave of murmurs radiated out from him like ripples from a stone dropped into a pond.

“A carriage accident,” Edric said, “resulting in a heavy blow to the head.”

“And that is precisely what you told me,” Keaton finished with a smile.

“Is there no hope for the restoration of your sight?” the Duchess asked with sickening sympathy.

“None, and I do not wish for it,” Keaton said abruptly. “Now, I would ask your availability for a dance, Your Grace, but I am unable to for obvious reasons.” He smirked, knowing his jest would cause some awkward embarrassment among his audience.

“I quite understand… Keaton,” the Duchess said faintly.

“I doubt that you do, Your Grace,” he replied icily.

He turned away, allowing Edric to guide him further into the Assembly Rooms.

“That was… almost uncouth,” Edric whispered, too low for any but Keaton to hear.

“I tire of explaining myself and being pitied,” Keaton replied.

“That is all too obvious, my boy. But think of your father and your legacy. That is the sacred vow I made to him. That I would ensure his son thought of Westvale and its future, first and foremost.”

Keaton suppressed a grimace, not knowing who might be looking directly at him to see the expression.

“I will try, Uncle. For the sake of father’s memory.”

And he did try for the next hour. Edric guided him among the gathered members of the ton, and Keaton behaved as was expected. A squire for all intents and purposes. He laughed when required and engaged in the tedium of banal conversation with his peers. A combination of the effort this took and the constant babble assaulting his sensitive ears began to produce an all-too-familiar and unwelcome sensation. There was a pressure behind his eyes, pressing against his forehead and promising to swell in intensity.

The music commenced, and he was vaguely aware of a swell of movement as ladies and gentlemen took to the dance floor.

“Uncle, why don’t you partake of the dancing? I was hoping to seek the solace of a quiet back room for a moment to soothe my head,” Keaton began.

“I will escort you, of course,” Edric replied.

“Nonsense, old man. I am familiar with the layout of Almack’s from my youth. All too familiar, as you and Father often remarked upon. There is a door over there,” he pointed with unerring accuracy, “leading to a corridor. Third on the left of that corridor is a pleasant smoking room with comfortable chairs. It will be quiet while the dancing is taking place.”

And a servant’s door in the corner of that room will lead me to the back of the building from where I can make my way to my meeting with Thorne.

Edric reluctantly agreed, seeing the determination in his nephew and knowing better than to challenge it. Keaton made his way in the direction of the door, feeling a loose floorboard that told him he was heading in the right direction. His cane touched a stone pillar exactly where he expected it, and he adjusted his path accordingly.

Then, something went wrong.

His first warning was a scent, wafting into his nostrils from close at hand, as though a lady had stood just the other side of the pillar. It was floral and delicate, achingly feminine, communicating beauty and vulnerability. He took in a deep breath instinctively, letting the scent fill his head.

Then his hand touched soft fabric. A shoulder. Someone was backing towards him. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman backing around the pillar as though using it as a hiding place, not paying attention to someone rounding it from the other side.

“Oh my!” came a feminine gasp, and the shoulder was snatched away.

Keaton’s instinct was to keep his hand outstretched in order to feel what was in front of him. But he realized that the woman, whoever she was, had spun at his touch. Had he kept his hand outstretched, he would now be most certainly caressing one of her breasts. His face colored at the thought.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“The Duke of Westvale, madame,” he replied drily, “may I suggest that you not walk backwards in such a crowded place. It is a veritable recipe for disaster.”

“I was not walking backwards!” she squeaked in defence. “May I ask why you were sneaking up on me?”

“I was not sneaking up on you.” He gestured beyond her. “Merely seeking the door.”

“I… apologize,” the woman said after a moment. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Keaton heard the startlement leave her voice, draining away to leave embarrassment. His irritation took longer to disperse. He did not like being publicly reminded of his blindness or having it highlighted by another. He was also keen to be out of the Assembly Room before he was cornered into any more conversations. His head was beginning to pound, and he desired nothing more than to hear an update on the progress of his investigation by Aloysius Thorne. This contretemps with a stranger was delaying him and worsening his headache.

“Your apology is noted. In the future, kindly be more aware of where you are going,” he uttered with a wry voice as he made to move away.

But he had become disoriented by the incident, and after two steps, found his progress halted by a small chair. He stumbled, cane clattering against the wrought iron legs. Worse, it came to him then that when he had gestured for the door earlier, his loss of bearings had likely had him gesturing into nothingness, hence giving away his lack of sight. He flushed hard, gritting his teeth and hoping no one was seated nearby.

“Wait a moment, sir,” came the woman’s meek voice just then, “I am sorry but… are you blind?”

“No, dear, I am simply quite foxed on the fine punch Lady Exeter is serving at the front.”

She didn’t answer.

After a beat, he turned his head toward her, irritated. “Is it not obvious?”

She hesitated. “Not to me, I’m afraid. To your credit, I shouldn’t think it is obvious to anyone who doesn’t already know. You are very sure in your movements.”

“Have you been living under a rock that you do not know of the Blind Duke?” he almost scoffed.

He felt a soft hand touch his arm and angrily shook it off.

“Are you blind, madame? I do not need to be steered like a wayward cow. If you would be so kind as to walk to the door, I will follow.”

He knew he was being churlish, but the instinct by most people to take his hand and yank him along was one that maddened him. A blind person did not want to be steered into the unknown but to find their own way, with a hand on the shoulder or the arm of a guide—just under their own power.

How does she not know of the Blind Duke of Westvale, anyway? Surely all of these jackanapes know the story and gossip about it. If I were so supercilious, I’d be of half a mind to believe this entire circus at Almacks was put together on my behest…

“I suppose I have not,” came the offended reply. “And if so, that is hardly my fault. Nor is it my fault that I do not know how you prefer to be guided. Perhaps I should just return to the dancing and leave His Grace to his own devices?”

Keaton gaped at the notion that she would leave a blind man floundering. There was a fierce edge to her words that showed a fiery disposition. His hand settled on her shoulder, and he felt her soft skin, fine bones, and was once again overwhelmed by her perfume.

“I would rather you didn’t,” he finally muttered in defeat.

“And I would not be so cruel, though one might say your rudeness deserves it. Here is the door.”

Keaton heard a door being opened and stepped through. He was about to ask for the name of his positively delightful guide when he heard the door close behind him with a clap that was almost a slam.

Remarkable.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 3rd of October!