SingSing Correctional Facility…

The flicker of flame of the lighter trembled almost as much as the hands of the man holding it. Matthew Wheeler watched hungrily as the flame caught, igniting the tip of cigarette.

The cigarette was the poor man's cigar, he reminded himself. It didn't help.

God, what he'd give for a cigarette.

God, what he'd give for Jonesy to not have a cigarette.

He stared at the hunched figure, eyes fixed on the glowing tip of the cigarette. Embers fell to the concrete pitch, tiny glowing dots that burned themselves out almost immediately upon contact.

What had he come to, Matthew thought in disgust, that even the sight of a cheap cigarette was enough to stir a coil of need in his belly so fierce that it was all he could think of? The fact that he was jealous of Jonesy—Jonesy!—only made the sickening feeling that had started the minute he'd been ushered inside SingSing over three years ago more intense.

Jonesy looked up, as if feeling Matthew's eyes on him, and took a long, slow drag.

Bastard.

"Mail call," a guard announced, and the prisoners obediently lined up, shuffling into alphabetical order with the ease of practice. It was one of the few benefits, Matthew reflected, of being housed in the white collar section of the prison. Most of the inmates had been convicted of crimes caused by the pen rather than the sword. There was still violence, of course. Confining hundreds of men in short quarters couldn't lead to anything but violence, but the natural order was still fairly calm.

Matthew watched as his fellow prisoners tore open letters from home and sneered to himself. There would be no letter from the Manor House to inform him of what was transpiring during his incarceration. At best he could expect to receive a letter from his lawyer informing him of yet more disasters befalling Wheeler International.

He frowned, watching as Jonesy carefully examined a small square envelope. Had he been given someone else's mail? Matthew wondered. Because surely it was out of the realm of possibility for Jonesy to be opening what looked to be an invitation to a formal event.

"Wheeler," the guard snapped, and Matthew turned away from Jonesy just as the man carefully slit the envelope. Matthew automatically extended his hand to accept the legal sized envelope. Momentarily puzzled by the fact that there was no return address on the envelope, he slit it open to find… a newspaper?

"What's this?" he asked, frowning.

"I don't know," the guard said, giving him an exasperated look. "If I had to guess, I'd say that it's a newspaper."

Not just any newspaper, Matthew realized, ignoring the guard's jab and wandering off to find a private spot. No, for some reason he couldn't fathom, he'd been sent a copy of the Sleepyside Sun. The New York Times, he could have understood. Even appreciated. But the Sleepyside Sun? Utterly useless. He leafed through the local rag, sneering at the articles extolling the accomplishments of the local gardening club, the progress of the high school basketball team, and the editorial he could only describe as quaint and provincial. Since he had nothing better to do, though, he read every blasted word, continuing on even when he reached the tedious social section.

And that was when his hands began to shake.

Mr. Peter Belden is proud to announce the engagement of his son, Mr. Brian Belden, to Miss Madeleine Hart, the engagement of his son, Mr. Martin Belden, to Miss Diana Lynch, and the engagement of his daughter, Miss Beatrix Belden, to Mr. James Frayne, II. Joint nuptials will take place in the Spring.

Eyes narrowed, he catalogued the unstated but glaringly obvious hits to his pride. His daughter was getting married, and he hadn't known. Not only was she getting married, she was marrying the son of his enemy. Not to mention the fact that she'd eschewed his family name and taken her mother's maiden name!

Vibrating with anger, he looked up to find Jonesy watching him with an expression of unsurpassed glee. The stoop-shouldered man smiled maliciously and flicked the ashes of his cigarette toward him before dipping his head politely, waving the invitation in his hand.

An invitation to Matthew's daughter's wedding, he now realized.

Well.

He wouldn't be in prison forever, would he?

And Sleepyside would no doubt be burning for him to return.