With This Ring

Prologue

“Here’s a juicy tidbit from your very own Voice of Society, gentle reader! A confidential source has informed your Voice that now returning triumphantly from a wealth-building sojourn in the Bahamas, Lord Aaron Arbogast, who may soon assume the title of the Earl of Arbodean, has a secret motive — he has, in fact, come home to find himself a proper English countess!”

Inside a ferociously fashionable carriage lacquered in green so dark as to be nearly black, drawn by a perfectly matched pair, rolling down Bond Street at a purposeful clip, a man handed his companion a news-sheet folded open to the tattle page. “Will that do it, do you think?”

The second man peered at the passage indicated. “Hmm. Wealth-building sojourn?”

The first man shrugged. “Well, I do think the term banishment should be discouraged for the nonce.”

A soft chortle rose from the second man.

“Welcome home, Lord Aaron Arbogast!”

In a feminine but genteelly shabby chamber in a house located in a once-but-no-longer-fashionable neighborhood in London, a dainty fingertip tapped thoughtfully on a portion of the gossip column. Then the delicate hand reached for a quill and dipped it into the inkwell on her escritoire. Upon the desktop lay a sheet of foolscap on which was inscribed a very short list of names — wealthy, titled, eligible names.

The pen rested for a moment at the bottom of the list.

Then slowly and thoughtfully, the quill tip rose to the top of the list, where it wrote a new name.

It underlined the name. Twice.

Lord Aaron Arbogast

In a breakfast room, not too far off in distance but miles away in aristocratic standing, a man forked eggs into his mouth as he perused a folded news-sheet with sleepy boredom. His half-raised eyelids suddenly widened in horrified disbelief. The fork clattered down to the fine china plate, spattering xanthous yolk onto the snowy tablecloth. The hand holding the news-sheet drew tightly into a white-knuckled fist.

“Arbogast!”