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Ice Blue

Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 1

Emma Jameson

Copyright 2011 Emma Jameson

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Artist: J. David Peterson

Publisher: Lyonnesse

Formatted by CyberWitch Press

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.


For Donna

Chapter One

Anthony Hetheridge, ninth Baron of Wellegrave, chief superintendent for New Scotland Yard, never married, no children, no pets, no hobbies, and not even an interesting vice, would turn sixty in three weeks. With the exception of his chosen career, his life had largely gone as predicted, without foolishness or significant errors. He had conducted himself with honor, and had even begun to think of himself as one who “held up well” over the years. Growing old did not torment Hetheridge; it was simply part of the graceful arc of his existence. His twenties had been the time for exploration and a thirst for learning; his thirties, for honing his strengths and accepting his weaknesses; his forties, for the cool, self-centered joy only true professional mastery could bring. His sixties would be the natural time of decline—withdrawal into memories, the descending curtain, the snuffed lights. One night, over a gin and tonic, it occurred to him there were dozens of ways to bring down the curtain himself, on his own terms. It was only fleeting, but idea’s hollow cowardice startled him. Rarely these days did anything escape his control, even an errant thought.

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