Excerpt3

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE

San Paolo, Brazil
September 15, 1867

    A black orchid.
    Dangling from the branch of an ancient mahogany, the fragile, inky blossom floated weightlessly -- a
dark, ephemeral ghost. Trembling from some unseen breeze, the flower seemed eerily prescient, as
though fully aware of Ethan Tremaine’s breathless interest.
    “Look at you,” Ethan whispered, as he leaned forward for a closer examination. He took a deep breath
and let the orchid’s potent, musky perfume to fill his senses. “You beautiful, beautiful thing.”
    Black orchids were the stuff of legends. Some chemists swore the magical petals could cure all the
world’s ills. Others believed the flower held a poison more deadly than anything ever known.
    For most of the last decade, his entire life had revolved around finding one.
    His search had taken him to the jungles of Asia and Africa, then across the Atlantic to South America.
He’d survived encounters with angry native tribes and man-eating tigers. He’d been laid low by an
unexplained fever in Burma and shot by a greedy competitor in Cameroon.
    What luck that he’d taken to exploring away the daylight hours while waiting for his Brazilian agents
to complete the preparations for his latest expedition. Yet how ironic that after all his travels, he’d found
the object of his obsession less than a hundred yards from the bustling lobby of the seedy hotel he
currently called home.
    He reached to remove the orchid from the tree, but hesitated with his hand a mere breath away. This
quest had consumed him for so long he couldn’t imagine it coming to an end.
    An odd sort of panic swept through him as he realized he’d purposely chosen a goal he’d believed
unattainable. What would he do now? How would he fill his empty days?
    Lost in his thoughts, he took a step back. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the canopy and
illuminated his find in a whole new light. He froze, and the blood drained from his face.
    The orchid was a deep, rich shade of purple. Fit for a king, but purple, nonetheless.
    For a long moment he simply stared, feeling the strangest sense of betrayal. Stupid, he told himself.
After all, he’d only betrayed himself, by seeing what he wanted to see.
    And he had to admit this wasn’t the first time he’d gone tilting at windmills.
    With a sigh, he extracted the orchid from the tree and trudged back toward the hotel. The orchid he
bore might not be black, but it was still an amazing find, sure to win him both wealth and recognition.
He could offer it as a gift to the Queen, who was a rabid orchid enthusiast, and insure a permanent spot in
her favor.
     He should be thrilled. But of course he wasn’t. The flashes of happiness he sometimes found his work
never dispelled the darkness in his soul for long.
    He entered the hotel and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The threadbare carpet and
battered furniture that graced the lobby made him wince. Sometimes he managed to forget how far he’d
fallen from the glittering aristocracy to which he’d been born, but his current surroundings jarred him
back to reality.
    “Senor Tremaine? You have a letter.”
    Ethan glanced over at the desk clerk and all thoughts of today’s failure fled his mind. Changing
direction, he gave the old man a rare, genuine smile. “From England?” But he already knew the answer.
Only one person in the world ever wrote to him.
    The thin, balding clerk grinned. “Si. All the way from England.”
    “Excellent.” Ethan accepted the travel stained envelope with as much care as he’d extricated the orchid
from the tree. Too many months had passed since he’d last received a letter from his old friend, Christian
Hunter, the current Viscount Harding.
    Heart sinking, he realized the bold, slanting script didn’t belong to Christian. Instead the missive bore
the seal of Ethan’s older brother Lucien, the Earl of Basingstoke.
    Frowning, he took the stairs two at a time and tucked the letter beneath his chin as he paused to
unlock his door. Once inside, he placed the purple orchid in a specially designed glass case, then sprawled
across the rickety bed and stared down at the letter with reluctant curiosity.
    It would be inaccurate to say he and his brother weren’t on good terms. Truth be told, they weren’t on
any terms at all. Years had passed since they’d last spoken.
    Even then, they’d communicated through solicitors. Ethan had sacrificed what remained of his pride
by pleading with his brother to finance his first expedition. To his surprise, Lucien had provided the
funds without question.
    Oceans and continents of silence had stretched between them ever since.
    Ethan often wondered if his brother still blamed him for the tragedy which had torn their family
apart, but he preferred to let the past remain buried. He’d certainly never expected Lucien to be the one to
bridge the gap.
     Holding his breath in trepidation, Ethan opened the envelope. Inside, he found an engraved wedding
announcement, which invited him to attend the nuptials of the Earl of Basingstoke and Lady Jane Bennett
a little over four months hence. On Christmas Eve.
    As he unfolded the invitation, a single sheet of paper fluttered out to rest upon the shabby coverlet.
Ethan shifted closer to the window in order to decipher the tiny rows of cramped, careful script.

August 12, 1867
Dear Ethan,

    I write this letter in part to appease my future wife, who believes I’ll never be happy until I make peace with
you, and in part because I’ve known for years that she’s right. I’ve taken pen in hand at least a dozen times
since you left the country, only to find myself staring at a blank page, unsure where to begin. So much has gone
wrong between us it’s hard to imagine ever making things right.
    For a long time I was furious with you for leaving, even though I knew I helped drive you away. I cringe
every time I remember the hateful things I said. How deeply those words must have cut. I can only hope that
time, distance and wisdom have convinced you of something I knew all along – what happened to Nathan,
Elizabeth and mother was not your fault. Forgive me for making those dark days worse, for not standing up
for you when you needed me most.
    Please come home. I know I have no right to ask, but it would mean a great deal to me if you were to stand
beside me during my wedding. After all, you’re the only family I have left.

Your brother,
Lucien

    P. S. Did you know your old friend, Lord Harding, is gravely ill? Consumption. Rumor has it that he won’t
last long.

    Despite the humid Brazilian heat, a chill traveled up Ethan’s spine. His brother’s words echoed in his
mind, upsetting long held beliefs and rattling doors he’d locked long ago.
    Self-preservation urged him to rip the letter to shreds, pretend he’d never seen it. But whether by
accident or design, Lucien’s careless postscript had sealed Ethan’s fate.
    He could ignore his brother’s belated apology. He could even resist the urge to accept Lucien’s
invitation to return to England and attempt to forge a new relationship out of the shattered remnants of
the past.
    But he couldn’t turn his back on the only true friend he’d ever had.
    He and Christian Hunter had been roommates at Harrow, the boarding school where Ethan’s father
banished him after the accident which changed his life forever. He’d been twelve years old and everyone
he’d ever loved was either dead or blamed him for causing the senseless tragedy.
    He might never have come to terms with what had happened if not for Christian’s friendship.
    They hadn’t seen each other in years, not since Christian had taken his father’s place as Viscount
Harding and Ethan had gone exploring, but they kept in touch via frequent letters.
    It had always comforted Ethan to know no matter where he went in the world, someone still gave a
damn whether or not he returned.
    Overwhelmed with grief, guilt and an unreasonable fury, he began to pack. He didn’t think his
brother knew him well enough to manipulate him so cleverly, but whether he had or he hadn’t, one
thing was clear. Ethan couldn’t remain in Brazil while Christian was sick, perhaps dying, in England.
    After years of running from his past, it was time to go home.