1 March 1799 She made her way down the darkened alley which ran between buildings that were constructed in such a way that the brilliant moonbeams didn’t stand a chance of illuminating it; not even a little bit. With her face laden with oversized spectacles that distorted her vision, and suffering from a mild case of night blindness, she did her best to steer clear of the multitude of hazardous obstacles that cluttered the seemingly never-ending journey to her destination. Olivia wished she dared remove the cumbersome spectacles that assaulted the bridge of her nose and her fine cheekbones. Finding her way through the poorly lit streets in the dark hazinessness of pre-dawn was difficult enough without having it encumbered even more by the blurred vision the thick glass of the spectacles afforded. They weren’t even hers. Her vision, in normal lighting, could be called perfect. She had secretly snatched them from the small cubical in the estate overseer’s desk as a means to help with her disguise. The spindly old man kept a variety of vision assistance, from wire rimmed glasses to magnifying lenses. The thick, bulky rims of the pair she had selected occupied the majority of her petite features; amazingly transforming her porcelain, aristocratic beauty into something resembling drab and mousy. With the hood of her coarsely woven, unlined, gray woolen cloak pulled low about her face, and the oversized glasses monopolizing the majority of the little that was left exposed, she would be certain to draw minimal attention from curious onlookers; had there been any at this hour. She pulled her cloak tighter around her body, ignoring it’s rough assault on her tender flesh. Although the prickly fabric was not something she was accustomed to, she far preferred enduring its rough touch than that of the bitter wind that swirled through the abandoned alley. It was cold, abnormally cold for this time of year. Or, maybe it was not the weather. Maybe the weather was normal and she was colder than usual for another reason. Could it be from her fear of the being discovered before she had an opportunity to carry out her plans? Or, possibly her anticipation of what was to come? Her pale yellow slippers that were adorned with rows of multicolored beading that blended together to create a beautiful peacock, provided a flimsy walk that was certainly no match for the thick muck that coated the final stretch of the dark, dank alley. She heaved a sigh of dismay. She had almost maneuvered her way through the perilous debris that permeated her path without a mishap. She was so near. Now, she would have to be presented to Doctor Jacobs with the all too questionable and unpleasantly thick goo all over her feet. She really should have taken the time to steal a more serviceable pair of shoes from one of the servants. Accustomed to walking only small distances in the out of doors, the slippers that she owned were far from adequate for a journey such as this. When secretly preparing her costume for her big escape, she had completely forgotten about her footwear. Not only were her slippers not serviceable, they were far too fashionable in comparison to the rest of her dress. Olivia shook her head at the fact that she had been reduced to stealing. She was not a thief by nature. She hated thieves. It was a thief who had caused the death of her mother and father; a highwayman in fact. Or, so she was told. She had barely celebrated her eighth birthday when a courier arrived with the horrific news that her parents had been shot during a robbery while traveling en route to court. Now, nine years later, Olivia could recall it as if it was only yesterday. The soft, orange glow of the rising sun was just beginning to climb up from behind the tips of the tree lined hillside and soft droplets of dew were just settling into a thick moist blanket across the estate’s garden when the courier’s horse raced into their cobblestone courtyard. Only a few of the servants were up and about. The absence of activity only served to accentuate the loud echo of the lathered horse’s hooves as it pranced to a halt. She was already awake and clearly heard the heavy pounding against the three inch thickness of the solid oak entry door directly below her open window. The courier had foregone using the wrought iron eagle’s head door knocker, not trusting it to be loud enough to alert the residence of his presence at such an early hour. Her room was positioned in the center of the second floor directly above the great hall, allowing her to easily hear the muffled chaos that the news created. Feeling a sense of doom, but thinking it was just her usual dread of leaving the warmth of her cozy bed before the revival of a fire in the hearth could transform the cold stone floors and walls into the welcoming haven she had come to know and love, she sunk deeper beneath the folds of her thick coverings. It would not be long before someone would be in to stoke up the fireplace and then she would inquire about the courier’s disrupting visit. He was probably sent by a neighboring lord or lady in need of her father’s ministering and not yet aware of the fact that her parents were on their way to court. But when the door opened it was not a servant with a bucket of hot coals for her fire, it was her governess, Isabelle, reluctantly bearing the shocking news that would change Olivia’s life forever. Her family had lived blissfully in the country since before she was born; with her father traveling back and forth to court as summoned. Both he and her mother loved the peaceful beauty of the country. But when King George’s health began to noticeably fail, it was her father’s duty as the senior Royal Physician to be available at all times; something that could not be accomplished unless they took up residence in the king’s court. Olivia had developed a nasty head cold from a chill she caught while disobediently playing in the light rain of an evening and had shared the illness with her younger brother, Malcolm. Aware that the king would frown upon a family arriving at court with two sick children but unable to delay their trip long enough to allow the children to recover their health, her parents reluctantly left their little darlings with in the care of the governess; providing her with detailed instructions for their well being. The children were to join their parents as soon as they were once again fit. But, of course, that never happened. Instead, they were whisked off to London to live with their mother’s brother, Lord Cyrus Roberts. A devout bachelor with minimal inclination toward warmth and expression where Olivia was concerned, Lord Roberts provided her with her basic needs, minus affection and love. Olivia’s looked up at the starless sky with her large almond shaped eyes. The only illumination it emitted was from the tiny sliver that was left of the moon that was preparing to soon change places with the sun; and even that had a difficult time being noticed through the soot and smoke from London’s multitude of chimneys of all shapes and sizes that were being fired up in preparation for the day’s cooking. She wished it was not such a difficult task to see her surroundings. She would have at least liked to know the identity of the goo that clung to her appendages before she continued on. Better yet, she would have liked to find a means of cleaning it off. But that would not be happening. The alley had come to a sudden end. She had arrived. Lifting the ornate, solid brass knocker away from the thick walnut door was no easy feat. She had to use both hands to pull the heavy and formidable looking lion’s head far enough away from its cradle to produce a decent sound when released. A small aperture in the door, no more than six inches wide and two inches high, slid open within seconds after dropping the brass knocker and she found herself staring into squinting bloodshot eyes that hinted of the blue lustre they once possessed. “Declare yourself!” the owner of the eyes roared. “’Tis Lady Olivia Newton. I am here to see Doctor Jacob,” she replied boldly. The silence seemed deafening while she waited, for what seemed like eternity, for the man with the bloodshot eyes to unbolt the heavy door and slowly pull it open. “He is running behind, miss. I shall show ye where to wait. Pray follow me and do not dawdle.” The slender, elderly man spoke in an authoritative voice that belied the tender, more vulnerable side that he strove so hard to keep hidden; or so Olivia chose to believe. Although the servant’s tone was stern, she sensed softness beneath it all. There was something oddly familiar about his tall, gangly features -and even the way he carried himself- that she could not place. She slid through the small passage that was created before he was able to heave the thick wooden mass fully open, noting as she did that the house coat he wore seemed unusually grand for that of a servant; even for one in a position of authority. An easy twelve inches taller than she, Olivia tilted her head back and smiled up at him in an offer of friendship. “Kindly refrain from smiling at me like that, miss. It shan’t be doing ye any good,” he huffed. “Now, pick your feet up and make haste.” Olivia made note of the perfect diction in which the man spoke; another thing that was very unusual to find within the class that servants were in. She started to question him about it, as well as his fine dress, but the thought passed as quickly as it came when they simultaneously looked down at the mention of her feet. A noise that was a mixture of a loud cluck, a squeal of dismay, and a gasp of horror, escaped from his lips with such fervor as to wake the dead. “What? Where have ye been? Ye can not come in like that, miss! The master will be furious if I allow ye to track in that... that... what is it?” Olivia studied her slippers as she lifted one foot and then the other with dismay. They were far worse than she had imagined. “I really can not say,” she replied. “It was quite dark in the alley.” “The alley? Ye traveled through the alley?” The old servant made a loud humph sound. “Well, whatever it is, pray remove it promptly,” snorted the disgruntled man. He clapped his hands briskly and a slight, young house maid, who appeared to be about Olivia’s age, arrived out of seemingly nowhere carrying a thick rag. She must have been standing in the shadows, Olivia mused. How else would she have known I was in need of a cleaning rag? As if reading her mind, the old man blurted out, “This is Tess. She carries that confounded rag with her wherever she goes. This is the first time it has come in so handy, I dare say.” Olivia looked at Tess’s weary looking expression and sighed. The poor girl has been summoned before her normal waking hour because of my dirty feet, she thought sadly. Being a woman who valued her sleep, the knowledge that she had robbed Tess of precious minutes of her much needed rest filled Olivia with remorse. Now Tess would probably be dragging around all day while the poor girl struggled to complete her duties. If only she had been more careful where she was stepping! Trying to ease some of her own guilt, Olivia smiled warmly at the tired looking wench, causing the young woman to blush and look away. “What are ye doing?” The old man roared, “Leave Tess to her business! I shall inform the doctor that ye have arrived.” He turned to spare a searing glower in Tess’s direction. “I trust ye will have rectified this situation by then?” “Yes, Master Edward,” Tess timidly replied, while she diligently scrubbed at the disgusting goo that clung stubbornly and threatened to destroy Olivia’s expertly crafted, satin slippers. As she did so, the colorful beads that formed the pattern of peacocks started to fall loose and roll across the clean scrubbed, slate floor. “Oh, miss, I am so sorry. Yer slippers are ruined for sure.” Olivia barely realized Tess’s dilemma as she pondered the fact that the man servant had been addressed as Master Edward. Surely a man servant, even the steward, would not be addressed in such a manner; would he? “Tess,” Olivia’s voice was barely audible, “who was that man?” “’Twas Master Edward, miss,” Tess answered just as softly. “What does he do here?” Olivia asked. “Why miss, ‘e is the steward, miss. ‘e is in charge of the others in the ‘ouse,” Tess responded, confused. “But, ye called him ‘master’, did ye not?” Olivia’s tone was mildly impatient. “Aye, I did that, miss,” Tess replied in a matter-of-fact way. “But why?” Olivia asked. Tess stared at Olivia with a dumbfounded look. “Why, I don’t rightly know, miss. ‘Tis the way I was told to address ‘im since the time I first arrived. I never questioned it, miss.” “Why did he answer the door? The house has a footman, does it not?” Olivia continued to quiz. “Aye, miss, several.” Although Tess answered the questions as they were presented, it was clear that she would have preferred be allowed to just do her job and not interact with the house guest who had arrived, unescorted, at such an odd hour. “Then why...” Olivia shook her head. It was obvious this young woman would be of no assistance in the matter of clarifying Edward’s role in the household. “I find this very strange; very strange indeed.” Tess kept her head bowed toward the floor to prevent Olivia from seeing the smile that resulted in the humor she found at a lady who arrived at her master’s residence in the wee hours of the morning, with her feet covered in goo, no escort, and dressed in a costume that obviously belonged to a woman far beneath her station, would find anything that goes on in this household strange. Before Olivia could ponder more on the subject of Edward, he returned and impatiently motioned her to follow him into a receiving room at the far end of the hall. She was not accustomed to being treated thus by servants, but she held her tongue. Taking into consideration the fact that her costume belonged to one of her servants, it was understandable that Edward -she refused to think of him as the house master- would take her for a woman of a lesser station. For now, she needed him to think just that. If she was to get out of London undetected, no one should know her true identity; no one, except her new guardian, the good Doctor Jacob. The rustling of a young, fragile looking servant girl rousing from her slumber caught Olivia’s attention. She peered into the small cupboard under the stairs as she walked by just in time to be captured by a pair of large, brown, doe-like eyes. But as lovely as those eyes were, they held within them the hardship of a servant’s life in eighteenth century England. Olivia thought of how different her own life might have been had she not been born into society. An orphan never fared well. Even in her position of privileged, she had lacked one of the most important necessities of life; love. Her uncle, an earl by birth, had reluctantly taken on the task of her and her brother’s care after the death of his sister. He had made it abundantly clear on several occasions fairly early in their relationship that he would have preferred a different arrangement, but he refused to provide any more gossip against the family. His sister had created plenty on her own. Lord Roberts made certain that Olivia was well fed and impeccably dressed. He saw to it that she had the best education available to young women and was exposed to the finer things in life by supplying her with the best governesses and tutors that money could buy. He had even seen to it that she was given the opportunity to do some light travel about England to help broaden her view of their country. But his heart seemed forever locked to her. Of noble birth, Olivia’s mother, Vanessa, had shocked her family and society by rejecting the man of her parent’s choice. She chose to secretly marry for love instead of openly marrying for wealth and status. As a result, she had married below her station to a man of middle class society. Ironically, both of Vanessa’s parents died of consumption not long after her shocking announcement that she had married a bright and promising young doctor. No ministering by their family physician or their new son-in-law could reverse the course of their disease. Rumor spread quickly that the Roberts had been driven to their grave by their daughter’s shocking display of rebellion. Although Vanessa’s new husband, Thomas Newton, had worked hard to develop a strong reputation of being the best physician in London and he had even earned the respect and eye of King George, Cyrus would not move past the fact that his sister had shamed the family by marrying a man of common birth. Even the king’s gifting Thomas with the title of knighthood, a grand estate in the country, and a generous fortune did not change her uncle’s stubbornness toward his sister and her husband. And, of course, Cyrus too was of the mind that the nuptial between his sister and the noble imposter was what drove his parents to their death. The only son and heir to their parent’s fortune, Cyrus denied Vanessa her rightful inheritance and any recognition as his sister until her husband’s good status with the king forced him to do otherwise. Even so, he never truly befriended Thomas and there was a strain between he and Vanessa right up to the day she died. Olivia’s brother, Malcolm, -as per the customs and laws of their country- had inherited their parent’s estate. Three years her junior, the estate remained in trust with the law office of Simon and Jacob until his he was to reach his sixteenth birthday; at which time he could assume possession of it all. All except for the small fortune that was left to Olivia as a dowry; the majority of which was to be granted to her on her wedding day. She was, however, allowed a small allowance for the few day to day needs that were not met by her uncle while in his care. Malcolm had inherited Vanessa’s fair hair, ruddy complexion and crystal blue eyes. He so resembled his uncle that those who were not aware of the circumstances often thought Cyrus was indeed the boy’s true father. It was an easy mistake, for Cyrus seemed to favor the boy enough with his affections that anyone could easily mistake them for those of a father. Olivia, on the other hand, had her father’s thick and unruly raven curls that playfully framed her delicate oval face. Perpetually rosy cheeks that stood out against her creamy porcelain skin and unusual violet eyes gave her a most exotic look. The only physical trait that she did seem to inherit from her mother, besides the deep dimples in both cheeks, was her petite and fragile looking physique. Olivia had often wondered if her uncle would have warmed up to her more if she too had resembled him. But since many girls in her situation would have found themselves in less inviting circumstances, she accepted the care he provided with humble gratitude. In fact, she was the model niece right up until the night he held a small, yet extravagant dinner party and surprised her with an announcement to the room of her engagement to the man she had been seated next to. Olivia shuddered as she recalled the looks of their distinguished guests when her uncle stood up from the table that was laden with an abundant display of meats and fruits, and raised his cup of newly imported coffee in a toast to the future nuptials of his niece and Lord Adam Morton. Snugly seated next to her, Lord Morton had placed his hand over hers in an affectionate, yet possessive manner, while he smiled and nodded in response to the other guest’s applause and well wishes. Stunned by this surprising bit of news and uncertain what to do, Olivia simply sat in her chair and stared at the large and finely etched silver platter, that bore the weight of an enormous venison roast that was surrounded by baked apples, cherries and pears, that dominated the center of the table. Her uncle had not even consulted with her on his decision. Was she not allowed even the slightest bit of say in respect to her future? Having lived with her desires and wishes being ignored since that fateful day her parents had died, Olivia’s youth had been spent fantasizing about meeting a man who would love and adore her and care about her needs, her thoughts, and her feelings. She clearly remembered the love her parents shared and she truly wanted the same for herself. She knew nothing of the man to whom she had just been publicly promised. Nothing, other than he stood about a foot taller than she did and had sported a handsome mustache when she first met him, which he since had shaved it off. He possessed steel grey eyes that seemed to reach deep into a person’s soul when he looked at them. When he smiled, women -herself included- had a tendency to go weak at the knees. But was this enough to make her want to marry him and spend the rest of her life with him? Hardly! Having just returned from the colonies, Lord Adam Morton was the talk of London society, as well as one of its most sought after bachelors. Thirteen years Olivia’s senior, he had sailed from England in search of adventure and returned only recently at the request of his father, who was suffering with an acute breathing affliction. The heir to an estate that could be considered by many as a king’s fortune, Adam had set his affairs abroad aside while he assumed the role of estate master; taking over his father’s badly neglected duties. Most women would have swooned with delight at the prospect of becoming Lady Morton. After all, Lord Morton was one of the richest and most influential men in England -or would be one day. His tall, muscular build filled out his jacket and breeches in a way that was certainly pleasing to the eye. His ruddy complexion, chiseled jaw, and steel grey eyes -that were accentuated by the sun-kissed auburn hair that looked as if it might become dark brown if left without the sun for any length of time- could certainly take one’s breath away. On the rare occasions when he donned a wig, it seemed to accentuate the magnetic luster of his unusual eyes. Yes, any woman would consider herself fortunate indeed to become the wife of Lord Adam Morton. But Olivia was not any woman. After living for the past nine years as the ward of a man who could not or would not open his heart to her, she was determined not to spend the rest of her life in a loveless marriage. Remembering how happy her parents were together and knowing that they had married for love, she promised herself that she would do the same. It did not matter to her that Adam Morton was to inherit a king’s fortune. It did not matter to her that this marriage gave her an opportunity to redeem the family name that had been sullied -in the eyes of her uncle, at least- by her mother’s actions. It did not matter to her that he was extremely handsome and vigorous. It did not matter to her that his adventures abroad had left him with a charismatic air of mystique. What did matter to her was that he seemed cold, reserved and incapable of loving her the way she wanted to be loved. The way she needed to be loved. The way she had dreamed of being loved her whole life. Since Lord Morton had returned to England less than a fortnight ago, after an absence of almost a decade, Olivia had found herself in his company on several occasions. They were first introduced at Molly Regent’s party and had spent the briefest of time discussing the weather. Both were guests of the Countess Westbury in her private box at the opera, where they found themselves seated surprisingly close to each other. Although Olivia found Lord Morton’s good looks and the fact that he did not follow the trend of wearing makeup to enhance his features quite appealing and their conversation had proved entertainingly light and trivial, she was wary of the unfamiliar hot, fluttery sensation she felt inside whenever he was near. Having not grown up with the privilege of being allowed a circle of friends, as most young girls of her social status might have, she had nary a confidant to explain these occurrences and had to use her own reasoning instead. And since the feeling left her confused and uncomfortable, she determined that it must be bad. Since Lord Morton was the instigator of such emotions and sensations, then he too must be bad. Adam had called upon her uncle on numerous occasions after her initial introduction to him; each time spending most of his visit behind the thick walnut doors that secured her uncle’s private study from prying eyes and ears; sometimes in the company of just her uncle and others with her uncle and another man or two who Olivia recognized as her uncle’s business associates. After the meetings dispersed, Adam would make his way into the parlor and spend the briefest of moments with her in trivial conversations and awkward silence. Olivia noted how their private interactions were in stark contrast to the light hearted ones she experienced during their public meetings. Since they both seemed to travel in the same social circle, Olivia took this menial, uncomfortable attention as the ever popular and socially conscious Lord Morton merely fulfilling an obligation of being polite before taking his leave. There had certainly been no indication whatsoever that he had been courting her! When her uncle shocked her by publicly announcing that he had agreed to give her hand in marriage to this aloof man who made her feel strange and nervous whenever he was near without even discussing it with her prior, she wanted to scream and run from the dinner table. But, social etiquette would not allow it. Her world had been a tortured blur during the few short months that led up to her wedding day. Therefore, the brief and minimal visits she received from her fiancé suited her just fine. Her governess, Madeleine Hardy, had completed the term of her contract but agreed to remain in residence as Olivia’s companion and waiting maid. She was also to act on behalf of Olivia’s deceased mother by assisting her with the selection of her gown and trousseau. Having been raised the daughter of a gentleman before her father’s death necessitated that she take up a position as governess, and only ten years Olivia’s senior, Madeleine dove into the task with excited zeal; so much so that she failed to recognize that Olivia did not share one ounce of her enthusiasm. For Olivia, her days were spent in despair. Was there no one who understood or shared her sense of overwhelming loss and confinement? She was pondering just this fact, while out shopping for some ribbons to match the new silk brocade she had commissioned to be made into a morning robe, when she ran into a very old colleague of her father’s, Doctor Jacobs, on Market Street. Although her uncle cared little for the distinguished doctor, the doctor had been a great admirer of her father; as her father had been of him. In fact, her father had thought so highly of the Jacob family as a whole that the doctor’s brother, who was the Jacob in the law firm of Simon and Jacob, had been entrusted to manage his children’s inheritance until they came of age. Doctor Jacob had taken it upon himself to visit the earl’s home and inquire on Olivia and her brother’s well being on more than one occasion. The fondness the young woman and the old doctor had developed for each other was a result of these many visits. “My dear, I understand that ye are to be wed to Lord Adam Morton. He is to inherit a dukedom, is he not? Well done, I say. Well done.” The doctor had foregone the latest fashion trend of a clean shaven face and sported an outdated waxed mustache and goatee and overly powdered, ill fitted wig that sat mildly askew on his head. His attempt to follow the trend to enhance his features with a little makeup here and there proved entirely unflattering and could easily be labeled gaudy. The combination of such gave him a comical appearance. Caring not a fig for his ill fitted appearance, Olivia’s eyes shone with genuine friendship as he took both of her gloved hands in his. The old friend’s brows knit together with concern while he listened to Olivia stammer her gratitude for his well wishes. This was not the excitement of a young woman about to be married. Upon closer study, he could see that her normally rosy cheeks were paled and her usually brilliant and deep violet eyes looked dull and hallow. Could she be unwell? Feeling the need to confide in someone, Olivia accepted the doctor’s offer to join him for coffee. Fortunately, they were not far from one of the few coffee houses in London that were inclined to entertain women. The rich, deep aroma of freshly ground coffee beans tantalized her senses as she allowed the doctor to escort her to a more secluded table toward the back of the dimly lit room. She motioned Madeleine to place herself in a distant, yet suitable location away from them, to allow her some privacy before entering into the doctor’s confidence. During a lengthy conversation over freshly brewed coffee that was lightened with sweet cream and complemented with sweet almond biscuits, Olivia expressed her despair over her uncle’s promise for her to wed without even so much as a whisper to her prior to announcing it publicly. She felt that, although her uncle had attended to her basic needs, he had not considered her feelings since that fateful day her parents died and she had become his ward. She was adamant that the match between herself and Lord Morton was intended to serve the earl’s ego and political station far more than it was to serve her happiness and well being. Having been denied the privilege of marrying the love of his early years due to her improper station in society,