London, 1814

The dust motes drifted languidly amidst the sunbeams that filtered through the sheer drapes at the bay window. The household was, by and large, still abed as Emma contemplated her reflection in the privacy of the dusty garret. The patinated looking-glass was as little used as the small room she liked to retreat to when she was of a mind to read or write her letters.

"Why, Emmaline, I daresay you have the most delightful teeth of any lady in London!" she mocked the mirror, chuckling to herself as she endeavored to find aught of her plain features that might inspire the admiration of even a single dignified gentleman.

She turned her head to inspect the brown ringlets at her face, the rest of her hair pulled up into a braided chignon, and frowned as she fingered the sleeve of her morning gown. The skirt was of a pale, green muslin and the bodice, that completely covered her bosom, was only slightly darker. It was not a particularly fine-looking dress and boasted no pretty patterns or flounces; it was merely an unremarkable, and plainly designed, little morning dress that perfectly suited its owner's lineaments.

Arching a single brow, she considered the sharp angles of her face, the cyan hue of her irises, and the light bespattering of freckles that clung to the ridge of her pert nose. She supposed it was a good nose, and the color of her eyes were rather striking, if she was being kind — which, at present, she was disposed to being. Would that her hair was not so dull a brown, nor her complexion quite so wan, but she had not the golden brilliance of her sister's graceful curls and neither did she possess Millicent's creamy skin.

But it was not an unfortunate-looking face by any means, however, no one was inclined to look past the spectacles, or her ungainly height; and this was especially apparent when Millicent was beside her. But she did not begrudge her sister the attention that was her due, for she loved her. Milli was, after all, rather a sweet little creature when she wasn't inveigling and suborning Emma into whatever mischief struck her fancy.

"This is pointless!" she muttered angrily.

She was not normally given to immaterial introspections or such conceited meditation, but since coming to London, she had been completely immersed in the city's love of fashion and beauty; utterly exposed to the superficial attitudes and arbitrary snobbery of the ton. How she missed her country home and the simple life she had been unwilling to leave.

Emma's father had always teased them that she was the academic and Millicent the thespian; that Emma was destined for school rooms and her sister for ballrooms. Emma frowned at the thought, rather disliking the direction the world seemed to think she should follow. It was true, she loved to immerse herself in Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton, but that was not all she enjoyed! By thunder, she was a woman first and a scholar second.

Emma narrowed her eyes at the girl staring back, as if daring her to argue the fact. The eyes in the looking-glass only echoed her gesture. She nodded with satisfaction as she stood, gathering up her pens, quills and diary.

"What would Father think if he heard you talking to yourself, Emma!" she scoffed. Perhaps he might change his mind and consider you an actor too; or a clown come to that!

Judging by the advancement of the sunlight through the casement, it would soon be time for breakfast and her uncle was not one to suffer tardiness, for he had lost none of the punctiliousness and discipline instilled in him during his tenure in the British Army. Poor Millicent, Emma grinned. Her sister was an avid lay-a-bed, but that habit had garnered much disapprobation and she had been, almost as soon as they arrived, hastily cured of that practice.

When she entered the breakfast room, she was greeted by the footman standing at the door. Her aunt and uncle Haywood had by this time already been seated at the table, he with the London Gazette under his nose and she chewing delicately on a buttered roll, perusing the Lady's Magazine.

"Good morning!" Emma greeted her guardians with the usual élan she was known for as the footman seated her. Aunt Sophie merely smiled and nodded her head as she chewed, watching the footman place a plate of kippers and eggs before her niece.

"Ahh, Emmaline," said her uncle sternly, "you are late." He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and peered down his bespectacled nose at the time. It was exactly five after nine, which meant that Emma was only five minutes late to the morning meal.

"Perhaps not so late, Uncle?" She winked at her aunt who grinned surreptitiously back at her. "Millicent is, after all, not even present yet."

She had raised her voice far above what was normally considered genteel or necessary, for her uncle was quite hard of hearing. The loss had, consequently, been accrued during his tenure as a lieutenant in the Artillery, the cannons and mortar having irreparably damaged his aural sense.

"Yes," he compressed his lips, "but that is not saying much." He then craned his head to inspect the doorway. "Where is that girl, Reid?"

Reid, the footman, anticipating his master's wishes, bowed and disappeared momentarily from view, ostensibly to have a maid sent to Millicent's room. When he returned, it was to inform his employer that Miss Lucas would soon be down. He then placed a fresh basket of warm toast beside Emma and filled her mug with the chocolate he knew she preferred of a morning.

"Hmm, the Regent is to give a grand fête at Carlton House in July in honor of the Duke of Wellington," her uncle observed, scanning his newspaper.

Emma offered no reply for she did not wish to shout, and, furthermore, was well aware that her uncle expected no response. It was not a woman's prerogative to have an opinion, nor was it seemly for the gentler sex to show an interest in anything of a political nature.

Emma did not, perforce, subscribe to that ideal. She had sustained herself, since first learning her letters, on the adventures of great literary heroines like Shakespeare's Viola, in Twelfth Night, who disguised herself as a man of Illyria, amidst much rollicking adventure and hilarity. Why could not her life also be as exciting. Emma longed to be other than who she was and be anywhere that was not here, in her uncle's house on Milk Street, where she and her sister had been sent from the north to visit for the summer.

Their father was a lawyer in Fairfield, Derbyshire, in the Peak District. Mr. Arthur Lucas was a man of simple tastes and pleasures who loved nothing more than reading in his library or fishing in the trout stream nearby. When he was not engaged in either of those occupations, then he was in his garden collecting and studying insects, for her father was very much an avid, would-be entomologist.

It had been their mother, Jane, who had petitioned her brother to have both his nieces join him in Cheapside, where they might enjoy the social whirl of London for a few months. Her mother had, of course, had an ulterior motive — that the girls might also, thereby, get themselves leg-shackled.

Their mother was quite hopeful that at least one worthy gentleman should make either girl, or both, an offer of marriage before they returned to the country; she was especially anxious for Emma herself who was now six and twenty — quite on the shelf, as it were.

Well, Millicent is certain to find herself a beau, but I am myself resigned to spinsterhood.

Her sister, although very pretty, had not much else to recommend her to the ton. There were really only three qualities that might inspire a gentleman to love a woman: good breeding, a respectable fortune and a beautiful face. Emma possessed none of these attributes, but Millicent had at least the latter, and might even catch herself a title with that incentive.

Moreover, women were expected to be nothing more than ornamental child-bearers, and Emma was quite certain that she could not respect a man that sought nothing more from her than her virtue intact on their wedding night, and an heir at her hip within the year following. This, she suspected, had been the case between her aunt and uncle Haywood.

She liked her uncle well enough, he was at least equitable, if somewhat stern, but she was rather more fond of her aunt Sophie. She only wished the woman were not so flighty and, in some ways, vapid. She was an old dear, and no mistake, but her aunt would sometimes stare off aimlessly as though she were contriving a great and noble scheme, but, more likely than not, she was merely taken over by irrelevant whimsy, her mind was prone to wandering. It was betimes quite difficult to converse with her for she would not answer till her name had been uttered more than once.

Emma saw that it frustrated her uncle no end. That was doubtless the reason they spoke very little to each other — he too frustrated to gain her attention and she too soft-spoken to speak over his deafness. It might have been comical were it not also sad.

The Haywoods lived in a small but comfortable townhouse, compared to the grander homes of the London elite, and though they could not boast a Mayfair address, they were still considered a refined and respected name amongst the gentry. But they had never been blessed with children and so, despite her uncles's gruffness, she believed he rather enjoyed the company of his nieces, for all he considered them both a silly pair.

Mr. Robert Haywood had, on retiring from the army, become a tradesman and done very well for himself since then. They dined regular with their peers and were often entreated to attend soirées hosted by their more illustrious neighbors, despite his being in trade. They were, in fact, engaged to dine with the Stapletons this evening.

Emma sighed, her shoulders slumping imperceptibly, as she thought about their social engagement. The Stapletons were, like her aunt and uncle, an older couple and so too were the rest of their guests. The best the two young girls might hope for was that the loo table be brought out and a game of cards ensue thereafter. She stifled her yawn with a piece of buttered toast as she imagined the tedious evening ahead.

"Hullo all!" Millicent said with plucky abandon as she suddenly flounced into the room. She passed the liveried footman with a winning smile, causing the young man's cheeks to flush instantly.

She was wearing an ivory, muslin morning dress with a tight, high-waisted bodice and flowing skirt. The entire length of her arms were covered by sheer sleeves, and her chest and neck were demurely covered in observance of morning dress etiquette. As she sat down, Reid hurried to fill her plate and pour her tea, but their uncle, after glaring at his youngest niece, retired his disapprobation and continued reading his paper silently.

"What the devil!" he gasped suddenly.

"What is it my dear?!" cried his wife, but he ignored her — whether by design or preoccupation, Emma knew not — and continued scanning the page diligently.

At length he lifted his head and, with a puckered brow, cast his troubled eyes over the women seated at his table. Without further ado, and with no further comment, he stood from the table and marched from the room, instructing Reid to call for a hackney and have the coach await him posthaste.

After breakfast, while Milli and Sophie were out shopping, Emma pulled the housekeeper aside and inquired where her uncle had gone. When Jenkins replied that she was not aware of her employer's whereabouts, Emma released a frustrated sigh.

"He seemed distressed by something he'd read in the London Gazette, Jenkins. Can you not perhaps tell me what might have shocked him so?"

"Oh yes, miss!" she affirmed. "There was a murder last night; second one this month, I believe!"

"But why should that trouble my uncle? Did he know the victim personally?" Emma had not meant to sound nonchalant, but murders and intrigues were rather a common occurrence in the rougher parts of town.

"No, ma'am, the man was a costermonger selling his wares in Whitechapel the evening before last." When Jenkins seemed to grow pale and anxious, Emma urged her gently to continue. "You see, it was quite a vicious attack, miss."

"How so! Do tell me please, Jenkins!"

"But if the master should find out..."

"I shan't breathe a word of it, you have my solemn vow!" The sincerity of her unusual eyes might have finally convinced the housekeeper to confide what she knew, for she relented. It was, in any event, only a matter of time before Emma herself became aware of the matter by some other means.

"Very well," Jenkins sighed, "but this is really not suitable for innocent ears!"

"Do continue, madam, for we both know I shall hear of it soon enough. We woman are an unstoppable force when we put our minds to something; and I am not as benighted a young lady as my uncle would have you believe." I am now, still and all, a bloody old maid, am I not!

"The murderer left very little of the victim, miss. He was not recognizable but for his cart and clothing; and his wife identified those for she had sewed his cloak herself."

"What do you mean unrecognizable? Tell me everything!"

"I mean, he was horribly disfigured and completely exsanguinated!"

"Exsanguination?" Emma exclaimed, horrified. She usually prided herself on possessing an appreciable amount of gumption and a sturdy constitution, but this was wholly unexpected.

"Yes, ma'am, that was what the papers wrote. The body had been decollated and the limbs torn from their roots, but there was no blood anywhere near the remains, which lead the Bow Street Runners to suppose that he had been murdered elsewhere and then moved to the scene of his discovery." She was becoming excited now as she continued and had, presumably, forgotten to whom she spoke for she left none of the grisly details to Emma's own imagination.

Well, I suppose I did entreat her to leave nothing out! Emma had by now become quite waxen. "That will be all. Thank you, Jenkins," she whispered.

The housekeeper's brows had drawn together dubiously; she was now perhaps regretting her disclosure. But after a bob of her head she quickly removed herself from Emma's company and left the younger woman to her morbid thoughts.