Excerpt
Lord Crimson was a self-made man. His vast fortune had been amassed by sweat and hard work, and his title, handed him on a silver platter by the Queen of England. Love, adoration, respect—these he had in abundance. And while a fraction of what he possessed would surely have been enough for any man, for Lord Crimson there was only sorrow and remorse. What horrific crime had he committed that his conscience should weigh so heavily upon him? A good question, but one whose answer had forever remained a mystery, for Lord Crimson had led a good and decent life and had never once failed to let another’s needs stand above his own. According to those who knew him best, there was no reason for his sadness. At least, that’s how it seemed.
At the outset, let’s be clear about one thing. References to Lord Crimson as a young man, and stories of Lord Crimson’s rise to fame and fortune, though as interesting and inspirational as any you’re likely to hear, will not be found among these pages. The tale with which we are concerned had its start on the day Lord Crimson turned seventy-five and began an adventure that can scarcely be imagined. Perhaps you’d best sit down.