I felt no grief for the loss of Philip. I hardly knew him. As the astute reader will already have guessed, the hunter rarely has much interest in his quarry once it is caught, except as a trophy. After a brief wedding trip, my new husband returned to Africa, where he spent the months prior to his death hunting with his friends. We exchanged civil, impersonal letters. Then the prescribed period of mourning began. For twelve months I would have to wear nothing but black crepe and avoid nearly all social events. After that I would be allowed silk, but in dull grays and black stripes. Not until two years had passed would I be able to return to an ordinary existence.

Philip settled irrevocably upon me a large fortune, and, much to my surprise, I now had at my disposal not only the London town house but also my husband's country manor, a place I had yet to see. Although the property was, of course, entailed, Philip's family insisted that I did not need to find a new home. Because we had no children, Philip's heir was his sister's son. The boy, called Alexander, was three years old and quite comfortably ensconced in his parents' house. He did not yet need to relocate to the family seat.

For more than a year, I stayed in London, left for dead as all good widows are. Relief came unexpectedly in the form of my husband's friend, Colin Hargreaves.

I spent my afternoons in Philip's walnut-paneled library, loving the feeling of being surrounded by books. Like the rest of the house, it was elegantly decorated, with a spectacular curved ceiling and the finest English Axminster carpets. Some previous viscount had selected the furniture with as much of an eye for comfort as for appearance, making the room a place where one could relax with ease in the most luxurious surroundings. It was here that Mr. Hargreaves interrupted my reading on a warm summer day. He strode across the room and nodded at me as he reached for my hand, raising it gently to his lips.