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Prologue


London January 1, 1800
 
A new century!
 
Cathedral bells all over the City, from St. Peter’s grand chimes to the slow bells at Aldgate, pealed a welcome to the new hundred years. The palace Horse Guards paraded in front of Pall Mall, while mummers and mountebanks gave free shows for the children in Hyde Park. Earlier that morning, several hot air balloons had risen into the clear dawn skies, the impressive but impractical inventions of the last century delighting and astounding the celebrating throng. Pugilists staged exhibition matches for the masses, and there was a prime bang-up at the Bell Tavern over whether the favorite’s mendozy punch was a flush hit or a hum concocted by their two managers before the fight. All in all, it was a glorious day, and the cold, crisp winter day rang with the sounds of celebration. And why not? There was much to celebrate.
 
The unpleasantness with the Colonies in America was over and done with. The war with France continued, but with the anticipated surrender of Malta, and the recent signing of Russo-Turk alliance, the devil Napoleon was at least temporarily at bay. With the new century had come astonishing advances in science, such as Joseph Priestley’s machine for producing electricity by friction, and Humphrey Davy’s incredible “column of electric light” from a battery. And Newcomen’s coal-powered pumping engine, first developed almost seventy years ago for the Cornwall mines, had been redesigned by a young engineer named George Stephenson, who was using it to power a loud, impractical but still fascinating invention called a steam locomotive.
 
Almost seven hundred new books had been published the year before, and magazines such as the Morning Post and the Gentleman’s Press were now being read by the upper class, though such ratified pursuits were, of course, far beyond the limited intelligence of the general public. Advances in medicine and social hygiene were reducing the City death rate from disease from one person in twenty to half that figure. But most impressive of all was the fact that the glorious British Empire stretched across the entire world, from India, to Australia, to the West Indies. And almost every ounce of cargo that came from the mighty empire, whether it was rum from the Indies, gold from Africa, jade from the Orient, or stone obelisks from the desert graves of Egypt, was brought in through the immense and sprawling network of piers, roads, tunnels and warehouses known as the London docks at Wapping, one of the largest ports in the world.
 
Yes, there was much to celebrate, and on this day of days everyone in the City, from the most pampered lord down to the most low-born chimney sweep, put away their quizzing-glasses, riding crops, mops, brooms, and shovels and joined in the revelry.
 
Everyone—save one.
 
Eight-year-old Lady Juliana Dare sat on a tea crate on the Execution docks near Limehouse Cut, watching her father’s newest schooner, the Swallow, floating along the bright waters of the Thames. Her father owned many ships, along with a number of profitable estates and holdings, for the marquis of Albany was a rich and powerful man. But all his riches hadn’t mattered a whit three weeks ago, when Juliana’s delicate, beautiful mother had died of influenza. And all of his power couldn’t help Juliana find a way out of the dark, hurting place inside her, where all she could think about were the stories her mother would never read her, the kisses she’d never feel on her brow, and the warm arms that would never be there to hold her.
 
“Lord, are you crying again?”
 
Juliana looked up into the handsome, irritated face of her cousin Rollo Grenville. Ten years her senior, Grenville was Juliana’s closest relative besides her father. Lord Albany had brought the young man down from Oxford because Grenville had lost his own parents years ago and he’d believed her cousin would be a comfort to her. What Albany failed to realize was that Grenville had never cared much for his parents and was only marginally put out by their loss. He’d never much cared for Juliana, either.
 
Being saddled with a mewling baby in the midst of all this merriment was more than Rollo could handle. He looked at his silver pocket watch and determined that Albany would not be back from his business meeting for another three-quarter hour. And the buxom tavern wench who was throwing glances his way did not look as if she was prepared to wait that long. “Listen, I want you to promise to wait right here. Right here, mind you. I’ll be back in ten min—” Grenville stiffened as the wench lifted her skirt to display a very immodest expanse of calf, then disappeared behind a stack of barrels. “All right, fifteen minutes. Wait here.”
 
Her cousin’s absence meant nothing to Juliana. Her world was just as cold and empty with him as it was without him. She used to love sitting on the docks and listen to her father tell of the wonderful, exotic places he’d visited. Juliana had been so excited when he’d said she and her mother would join him on his next voyage. But now her mother was gone, and the thought of taking an adventure without her only made the loss more painful.
 
“Why so glum, Princess?”
 
Startled, Juliana turned around. The speaker was a wharf rat—one of the orphaned children who lived off the scraps and leavings on the docks. She guessed he was twelve or thirteen, though it was hard to tell from his filthy clothes and half-starved appearance. Yet despite his deplorable state he held his head high, and his striking sky blue eyes met hers without a hint of uncertainty. “I’m not a princess,” she admitted with strange reluctance. “And I’m crying because my mother died.”
 
A haunted look shadowed his eyes. “Cor, that’s a blow. Me own mum weren’t much good to me, but I still miss her sore. Right here,” he said, pointing to his thin chest. “Like someone carved out my heart and forgot to sew it back up.”
 
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Juliana cried in amazement. “Father says I must be brave and keep a stiff upper lip. But I keep feeling my lip and ’tis ever so soft. And Grenville says I’m a baby for crying. Do you think I’m a baby?”
 
The boy stared at her, as if amazed that his opinion would matter. “I think that anyone what loves enough to hurt ain’t no baby.”
 
“And do you think my upper lip will ever be stiff to please my father?”
 
The boy’s gaze traveled to her mouth. A strange vulnerability shook his confident expression. “Your lips be fine. In fact, you’re … perfect.” Clearing his throat he took a step away, and touched the forelock of his muddy blond hair. “I’d best be going.”
 
“Oh, don’t. Please. Here, I’ve got a penny.”
 
The bright confidence in the boy’s eyes died. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and backed away. “I ain’t no charity. I never asked for coin.”
 
“But your clothes are so awful and you’re so thin—”
 
“I ain’t no charity!” The boy still held his chin high, but there was a gleam of shamed tears in his eyes. “I’m Connor Reed and I make my own way, see. Always have. Always will.”
 
Juliana watched the boy stalk away, struggling with emotions too deep for a young girl to understand. She’d promised her cousin that she wouldn’t leave this spot. She’d promised her father that she’d listen to Grenville. But she also knew that talking to this boy had made her feel more alive than she had in weeks. Somehow he’d touched the hurt inside her, and for an instant she hadn’t felt empty or alone. Magic, she thought as she gazed after him. Like one of the heroes in the stories her mother used to read to her. A magical storybook hero.
 
She jumped up off the crates and ran after the boy. “Connor Reed, come ba—”
 
Her foot caught in a stray rope. She lost her balance and toppled over the side of the dock into the river.
 
The freezing water drove the air from her lungs. She struggled to the surface and tried to cry out, but her words came out as a choking whimper. No one saw her fall. No one knew she was drowning. She heard the celebration on the docks above her, the loud revelry that overpowered her faint cries. She flailed helplessly as the water closed over her a second time.
 
Her clothes felt like lead. Treacherous eddies pulled her under. With the last of her strength she clawed her way back to the surface and gulped much-needed air. She looked up and thought she saw Grenville watching her from the pier above. Then the water closed over her again, and as she lost consciousness she imagined a white-winged angel coming to take her to heaven.
 
But when she opened her eyes she saw that her savior wasn’t an angel, but a half-starved, blue-eyed wharf rat, drenched to the skin. “You lie there qu-quiet-like, Princess,” he said through chattering teeth. “Everything’s gonna be b-bang-up prime.”
 
And as she saw her worried father arrive, and watched him lay his hand on Connor’s thin shoulder, she knew that somehow things really were going to be “bang-up prime” after all.