Lord Sebastian Ashworth did not believe in ghosts. He believed in beauty, and beauty, he had learned, was far more dangerous.
It was 1893, and London was a city of gaslight and shadow, of men who wore their wealth like armor and women who wore their silence like jewelry. Sebastian moved through this world the way a man moves through a museum—appreciating everything, touching nothing, knowing that if he touched anything, it would break. He was thirty years old, heir to a title that had more name than money, and...
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