Prologue

Hamilton House, Essex

1814

“Mama, I simply cannot attend Viscount Stamford’s ball next week with my current wardrobe. It is simply intolerable! No dress is not at least a month old, and nothing at all that I have not worn before.”

That was Emmeline Nightingale’s strident voice. It was inescapable, piercing the walls of Hamilton House. Charlotte Nightingale, Emmeline’s cousin, lowered the romantic novel that she had been reading before Emmeline’s disaster rocked the house.

“Of course, you shall, dear,” Judith, Emmeline’s mother and Charlotte’s aunt, said. “Henry, has a modiste been appointed to produce some new dresses for Emmeline and Alice?”

Charlotte closed her book, tossing back her dark curls. She kept her place with a finger and stood. The sitting room she had chosen for a quiet morning’s read was small, tucked away in what she had thought would be a quiet corner of the Nightingale house. But Emmeline and Judith’s voices had come from just down the hall.

“Not my province, as you know. I leave that to you, my sweetpea,” Henry Nightingale replied to his wife.

His voice came from just outside the oh-so-temporary refuge that Charlotte had found. The door opened, and Henry started upon seeing his niece in the room. He held a book, a clay pipe in his other hand, halfway to his mouth.

“Charlotte, good morning to you. I did not see you at breakfast,” he greeted.

Henry resembled Charlotte’s late father in appearance. Both had strong jawlines, a bold nose, and hazel eyes. Henry lacked his older brother’s stature but shared the same dark locks, a feature Charlotte had also inherited.

“Uncle Henry, I was at breakfast. You were not,” Charlotte said with a smile.

“Oh, was I not? That’s right, I got caught up in an experiment. I was thinking of yesterday.”

“Last week,” Charlotte corrected, “I didn’t join the family for breakfast as I was visiting with the Dowager Countess of Beswick.”

Henry was already selecting a book from the bookcase that occupied one wall of the sitting room.

“Oh, very good. Now that you mention it, yes, I remember,” he murmured absently. “Hmm, have you seen my pipe?”

Charlotte smiled sweetly, plucked the pipe from her uncle’s top pocket where he had placed it moments before, and presented it to him.

“Ah, you are so very helpful and practical, Charlotte. Not at all like my own brood of empty-headed females.”

“I think I will take some sun while it is warm,” Charlotte replied, heading for the door.

Henry was settling himself, tamping his pipe, when his wife appeared in the doorway. He winced as she began to screech.

“I do wish you would take our daughter’s futures more seriously, Henry. They stand little chance of a good match if forced to attend social functions in rags. Like beggars!”

Charlotte could not quite control the grin that broke out on her face at her aunt’s hyperbole. Aunt Judith was a tall, imposing woman with broader shoulders than her husband and a complexion that found glowering a natural and carried more than a hint of the Spanish. There was a legend that her family was descended from a sailor of the Armada, washed up on the coast. Such legends were not spoken of in Judith Nightingale’s company.

She regarded her niece with narrowed eyes, pale blue and icy.

“Good morning, Charlotte. Was there something you wished to add?”

“Not at all, Aunt Judith. I was feeling sympathy for Emmeline and Alice’s deprivation,” Charlotte hastily put in.

Henry guffawed. Charlotte wished she had her words back. Uncle Henry was not a man to be politic in his reactions.

“I trust your wardrobe suits the coming engagement?” Aunt Judith asked.

“Well, I, too, have nothing that has not been worn many times before. And nothing newer than two seasons ago,” Charlotte began, wondering if she would be included in the trip to the modiste.

It would be nice, just once. When was the last time I had a new dress made for me? Or even attended a ball and felt that I was as pretty as the other ladies? Possibly my debut, and that was four years ago.

“Very good,” Aunt Judith snapped, turning back to her husband, “Henry, I will write to Mrs. Pumfrey of Castle Street in York and order half a dozen new dresses each.”

Charlotte slipped away, forgotten and chiding herself for the feeling of disappointment.

I am the third child of the household, not in age but in priority. Aunt Judith looks to her own daughters before her niece, and I should not let it hurt.

But it always did when the snubs came.

“Six! Good grief, they will only wear one for the ball, won’t they? Why do they need six and at York prices, too!” Henry exploded.

Charlotte hurried by as Alice came down the stairs.

“Would you rather I went to Mrs. Ashworth of Huntingdon? Or perhaps a seamstress from Kettlewick?” Judith demanded.

Alice had her parents’ dark hair and her mother’s ice-blue eyes. At the words she heard, her face fell.

“Did she just say a seamstress from…” she swallowed, “Kettlewick? A village woman?”

She clutched at Charlotte’s arm, causing her cousin to drop the book she had been trying to read.

“Please tell me that I misheard. Mama!” Alice cried out without waiting for an answer from Charlotte.

Emmeline appeared from a room down the hall. She and Alice were as alike as twins, though Emmeline was eldest by two years. Both were plump with round faces and bold noses. Jean, the third sister, was the odd one out—both in appearance and the time she spent away from her family’s home in favor of her friend, Sally’s.

Emmeline scurried past Charlotte, stepping on her book in the process. Both sisters bustled towards the previously peaceful sitting room, ignoring Charlotte.

She picked up the book, smoothing out a page that had folded over when it had fallen. The conversation continued at full volume down the hallway, with Henry battling his wife and daughters over the cost of twelve dresses—eighteen if Judith included herself in the numbers.

Charlotte hurried past the staircase and around a corner, seeking the small hallway leading her to the kitchen and then out into the stable yard. It was the quickest way out of the house. As she reached the door, her eye was drawn to the portrait of her mother and father. She stopped dead, eyes going to the place beside the front door where they had previously had a pride of place.

“Mr. Bartleby had the picture moved yesterday,” came a coy voice from behind her.

Lucy Robins, Charlotte’s maid, had quietly descended the stairs, her arms full of Charlotte’s laundry. She had fair hair, tied back, and a petite, freckled face with sparkling green eyes. Her mouth, always ready to smile, was pursed in concern as she looked at her mistress.

“Oh, did he give a reason?” Charlotte asked.

“That such a prominent position should not be given to a lord and lady not of this household. His lordship, your father, was brother to Lord Stockton and should be displayed further into the house,” Lucy said, her tone making her own views clear.

Charlotte used her sleeve to wipe dust away from the portrait.

“It is not my house; I cannot expect to make rules. But it is a shame. I always liked seeing them whenever I came in or went out,” Charlotte said sadly.

Lucy leaned in and whispered. “I had planned to come down in the middle of the night and remove it to rehang it in your rooms. It would be a nice surprise for you, my lady, and one in the eye for Mr. Bartleby.”

Charlotte laughed, won over as she always was by Lucy’s irreverent nature.

“I would appreciate that, Lucy. Now, I must escape that frightful caterwauling. I do not wish to be reminded that I will attend the ball in old clothes.”

“But will be twice as beautiful as those two even if you attend in rags, my lady,” Lucy said loyally.

Charlotte opened the door and took a handful of sheets from Lucy’s arms against the maid’s protest. She preceded Lucy along the hallway beyond, stopping before the door of the laundry room. There, she handed them back, knowing that Mrs. Hannon, the housekeeper, would have apoplexy if she saw a lady of the household carrying laundry—even if that lady was Charlotte and barely recognized as such.

“I am going to find a quiet seat in the gardens to read this book you lent me,” Charlotte said.

“Very good, my lady. I will bring you out some tea,” Lucy nodded, “and I recommend page ten. Oh my, it made me blush. The hero is so like my Peter.”

“I shall pay close attention,” Charlotte giggled, “and I have not forgotten what month we are in. I have procured the day off for you in three weeks’ time.”

Lucy blushed and curtsied.

“You did not have to do that, my lady. But it is much appreciated. That day is always… difficult, even two years after the good Lord took him away.”

On impulse, Charlotte hugged Lucy, who blushed even brighter. Charlotte walked into the kitchen, greeting the staff brightly and breezily. Mrs. Hannon, bird-thin and iron-featured, responded with absolute courtesy while looking as though she were looking down her nose at Charlotte. The cook, Mrs. Garret, jolly and roly-poly, pressed a hot bread roll into her hands and was reaching for a clay jug of milk when Charlotte held up her hands.

“The roll will be quite enough, Mrs. Garret. It smells delicious. There is no finer bread in Yorkshire, I do declare. Lucy will bring me out some tea in a while.”

“That will be one fewer roll for the family,” Mrs. Hannon sniffed.

“Of which Lady Charlotte is one,” Mrs. Garret pointed out with a wave of a wooden spoon she always had in her hand.

“Not Lady at all, Mrs. Garret,” Mrs. Hannon said with a raised nose.

“Daughter of the late Earl of Abbotsbury, without whose generosity this house would not have its fancy new wing and would be a crumbling ruin beside,” Mrs. Garret countered.

“I always said it was a mistake to join two households. The staff of Abbotsbury are not our sort.”

Charlotte excused herself as an age-old argument began again between the two women. She slipped into the stable yard and hurried along the path to the garden. Finding a bench under a bower of fragrant roses and lazily buzzing bees took a few moments. She sighed as she closed her eyes briefly.

Hamilton House has always been Bedlam! When my cousins are not arguing with each other, they are berating their father or the staff. Who wars with those who came with me from my parents’ house. A moment’s peace to escape is all I ask.

She opened her eyes and unfastened her book, finding her place, which was not too far from Lucy’s recommended spot. The prose was tolerably written, though Charlotte believed she could have done better. But the story of a rakish Duke redeemed by the woman who loved him touched her heart. She could picture the handsome rake in her mind’s eye. He would be tall and dark with a strong face and smoldering eyes.

“Lady Janet swooned as Kenneth took her in his arms, giving way to the…” came a male voice behind her.

Charlotte jumped, dropping the book for a second time. She leaped from her seat and spun. Luke Hadlow stood behind the bench, having climbed the wall that backed it. His red hair framed a round, boyish face and a smile that rarely seemed to leave his lips.

“Luke! Whatever are you doing, scaling walls and giving me the fright of my life!” Charlotte exclaimed.

He hopped over the back of the bench to perch upon it.

“I saw you in the distance and thought I would surprise you. The wall wasn’t difficult to scale. And the effort was worth the look on your face.”

Charlotte stooped to pick up her book, brushing grass from its cover.

“Whatever are you doing reading such drivel?” Luke asked.

“It may not be Shakespeare, but it is a guilty pleasure I allow for myself,” Charlotte declared boldly.

“Hmm, I won’t tell my mother. She would be bitterly disappointed,” Luke said.

“Please do not!” Charlotte could not help laughing at the idea of the Dowager Countess of Beswick learning that the woman his son was courting read scandalous romantic fiction.

The woman he pretends to be courting anyway. Another secret to be kept from her.

“I also have this for you,” he held out an envelope, “it is for you, but was delivered to the Priory by mistake. I really must have a word with the postmaster at Huntingdon. This is the third time the post has gone astray.”

Charlotte took the envelope, feeling a thrill of excitement. It bore her name in her sister’s handwriting.

Finally, Amelia writes to me. She has never left it so long before. I was beginning to worry.

She opened it. Luke tried to read over her shoulder, possessing no apparent boundaries. Charlotte flicked his ear, and he yelped, sliding out of her reach. She grinned as she started to read.

“She is well and enjoying the season in London,” Charlotte read aloud, “she asks after me…”

“And me?” Luke asked.

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, scanning the letter. As she read on, she stopped, reading something she had not expected.

“Yes,” she said absently, “she does ask after you.”

Luke jumped from the bench and snatched the book Charlotte had put down to read her sister’s letter. He laughed as he flicked through the pages.

“When you write back, be sure to tell her…” he began.

But Charlotte did not hear. She re-read the part of the letter that she could not share with Luke. The part in which her twin sister asked to switch places with Charlotte for a month as they used to in their youth.

She wishes to come here and live my life for a while. And I go to London! Live with the Willoughbys! It has been so long since we did this last…

But as Charlotte read on, she began to sense a difference in Amelia’s words. Gone was the playful excitement that had presaged one of their previous switching adventures. Amelia’s words made her seem almost desperate.

Whatever her reasons, I will help her however I can.

Chapter Two

Fleet Street, London

1814

Seth Redmaine, Duke of Bellmonte, could not tell upon waking if the noise he heard was a loud banging at his door or the remnants of red wine in his head. He groaned, rolling over on his bed. He was fully dressed and even booted. His mouth was dry, and his blonde hair was in wild disarray about his high-cheeked face. Eyes that were usually the bright gleam of emerald were now tainted with red.

The room was blurred for a moment. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and waited for the room to stop spinning. It resolved itself before him. A bedroom with bare floorboards and rafters in which pigeons nested. A narrow window looking out over the tumbled rooftops of the city towards the white edifice of St Paul’s. Beyond the room’s only door was another room, and the door that Seth now realized was making the offending noise.

“Pipe down! I am coming!” he shouted, but immediately regretted his volume.

Staggering from the bed, he made his way into the other room, which had sparse furniture, none of which matched. He tripped over a rug and found the door locked. A moment’s searching revealed that the key was in the lock. Seth chuckled at his own foolhardiness and opened the door.

“Well, about time!” Elliot Harding exclaimed.

He was the same height as Seth but slim, while Seth was broad. His hair was brown, as were his eyes, and his lips were thin, with a slightly receding chin.

“I have been knocking out here for the best part of half an hour. There!” he suddenly exclaimed, “that is the bell of St Paul’s sounding the hour. Exactly half an hour I have been out here!”

Seth stepped aside, allowing his friend, the Viscount of Arkendale, to enter.

“My apologies, Elliot. I was dead asleep,” Seth flung himself into the embrace of an armchair. “There is flint and tinder on the mantle. Start a fire; there’s a good chap. Then we can have some tea,” he added.

“Dead drunk, more like,” Elliot groused.

“The one circumstance does tend to follow the other,” Seth commented.

“Are you alone, at least?” Elliot said, craning his neck to peer towards the bedroom.

Seth smirked. “Feel welcome to have a look.”

Elliot crossed himself. “No, thank you. Anyhow, there is no time for tea. You are supposed to be promenading with your betrothed. You had clearly forgotten.”

“No, my friend. I had not forgotten. At least, I remembered before I began drinking last night. After that, forgetfulness is another condition that follows from being drunk,” Seth murmured.

“She will be furious. I am not sure your betrothal will withstand this latest insult. Which it is bound to be perceived as,” Elliot replied, pacing the room.

That is precisely the state of affairs I had hoped to achieve when I imbibed my first glass of that terrible red. Where was that? Somewhere in Cheapside, as I recall. Well, that will hopefully make three broken engagements out of three. And none ended by my own hand. Enough to satisfy that damnable clause of my father’s will.

“I suppose we can still salvage something. I have sent word ahead that you are under the weather but determined to keep the arrangement. She should be suitably impressed that you are dragging yourself from a sick bed,” Elliot declared with no little pride.

“What would I do without you, Elliot, old boy,” Seth murmured, trying to sound contrite and relieved.

This would be so much easier if I could bring my oldest friend into my confidence. But dear Elliot, you are far too good a Christian to approve, and I must keep you in the dark.

“I sometimes wonder. Now, where in this hovel do you keep a washbasin?” he looked around, “I mean, why do you insist on living in this garret when you have an entire mansion at Hillcrest, within sight of Hampton Court, too!”

Seth reached under his chair and came up with a battered tin basin.

“Water can be found from the pump at the horse trough outside,” Seth replied, “would you care to get me some?”

“Get your own!” Elliot exclaimed, snatching the basin from Seth, nonetheless.

“I must change my clothes, Elliot. If you could furnish me with fresh water, I can be presentable in two shakes.”

Elliot groaned. “And then we must hurry. My carriage awaits us downstairs to take us to Hyde Park and keep your promise. I only hope the Lady has not grown tired of waiting.”

Seth levered himself out of his chair, swaying momentarily and steadying himself. He clapped his hands together.

“Elliot!” he declared flamboyantly, “I am quite persuaded of the urgency of your errand. If you wouldn’t mind fetching me wash water, I will do my utmost to be ready and try to salvage something from this appointment.”

Elliot looked skeptical but acquiesced, grumbling to himself as he left the room. Before he had gone far, though, he called back.

“It seems I am also your appointments secretary as well as your servant. There is a gentleman downstairs waiting to speak to you. I shall send him up.”

Seth was about to ask who the gentleman was when he heard a voice he recognized.

“Never mind, Lord Arkendale, I am already up.”

The voice was precise and smooth, slightly out of breath. A man appeared in the doorway, bowing to Elliot as he passed him in the hall. He wore black, a large overcoat that he seemed to huddle within. His head was bald, and his skin pale. His eyes were dark and birdlike. He was slender with long, fragile-seeming fingers and a thin smile.

“Ah, Master Monkton, what a pleasant surprise,” Seth exclaimed insincerely.

“Indeed, I have not spoken to you in person since I executed your father’s will, Your Grace. Partly because you have proved yourself a difficult man to find.”

“You have been looking for me?” Seth furrowed his brows, feigning ignorance.

“On occasion, when you have not responded to my correspondence,” Monkton replied, looking around the room. “I did not expect to find the Duke of Redmaine in such… surroundings.”

Seth glanced at the room. “Humble to be certain. But then, humility is a virtue. My father was Christian, if nothing else. I think he would approve.”

Monkton puckered his lips. “Do you think so? He was also a very austere man with refined tastes. I am not sure a garret on Fleet Street would meet with his approval.”

“But within sight of St Paul’s, you will note. Is this another clause of the will which I have not been apprised of?”

My father controlled my every action or tried to when he was alive, and this odious reptile seeks to do the same in death. Damn him and his clauses!

Seth sat, putting one booted foot up onto another chair and waving a hand to indicate that Tharpe Monkton, solicitor to the Redmaine family, should also sit. Monkton declined with a thin smile.

“There is no such clause, Your Grace. Your father did not anticipate that you would favor Whitechapel and Cheapside over Hillcrest. No, the only clause in the will is the marriage clause. That is the only barrier to your inheritance.”

“Hardly a barrier. I have my inheritance. I am Duke.”

“But to remain in control of the majority of your lands and your title, you must marry one of the three women specified by your father. Three women deemed to be suitable matches. Lady Catherine Halsey, Lady Sarah Vickers…”

Seth raised a hand as though to dismiss Monkton’s words. He needn’t be reminded of his ill-fated dukedom.

Most dukedoms passed cleanly, father to son, no questions asked. Bellmonte was never that simple. It was a patch job from the start—granted to his great-grandfather as a political favor after the Civil War, back when half the peerage was still being shuffled around like a deck of cards. Special remainder, conditional grant—it meant the Crown could revoke it if the heir didn’t meet certain expectations. Not law, exactly. More like a threat written in gold ink. And his father made damn sure he knew it.

“I do not wish to be reminded of those names, my dear Monkton. There is still much pain in those remembrances. I did not break off either of those engagements, as you may recall.”

“You did not, but you aren’t exactly blameless, old chap,” Elliot chirped, appearing with a full basin of water.

Seth glared at him.

Do not ruin everything, Elliot. The wrong word to this snake, and my future becomes very uncertain very quick.

“I dispute that. The lady in each case broke off the engagement despite earnest protestations on my part,” Seth added.

He willed Elliot not to elaborate on his statement. Monkton looked from Seth to Elliot with interest.

“Of course, the clause would be activated if you had ended the engagements. I wonder what Viscount Arkendale meant when he said you did not help?”

Elliot put the basin down on a sideboard, having the good grace to look chagrined at his words.

“Only that Seth is fond of his recreations. I think the lady in each case expected less time to be spent at the club. But then, that is a gentleman’s prerogative, is it not?”

Seth rose and began to strip off his waistcoat and shirt before dipping his hands into the cold water in the basin.

“Precisely. No one would expect a man with my reputation to swap club for chapel and country house instantly because he is betrothed. Do you, Mr. Monkton?”

He dipped his head into the basin, gasping from the cold. He whipped his blonde hair back from his face, peeking over his shoulder at Monkton.

“Of course not. I cannot take action because your betrothed objected to time spent at your club. Only if there is evidence of a lack of fidelity on your part…” Monkton added.

“Lack of fidelity?” Seth barked. “You refer to my reputation as a rake? I can assure you it extends to my drink capacity and love of a game of chance. Find me a single woman who will attest to being my lover. Elliot, do you know of any?”

Elliot shrugged with his hands raised. “I cannot, I have to say.”

“Nor can I. And I have tried,” Monkton stated, his voice suddenly icy.

His dark eyes met Seth’s and held them.

He knows my plan or suspects it. But can he prove it? That is the question. Prove that I deliberately drove Sarah and Catherine away to escape the marriage clause.

“It seems you are unlucky in love, Your Grace,” Monkton said, “or lucky, depending on your perspective.”

“Lucky? I was extremely fond of both women and was coldly rejected by both. I hardly think that qualifies as luck,” Seth replied.

“Except that being rejected by all three women specified as potential wives approved by your late father allows you to escape the marriage clause in his will. The title and estates then become yours fully. This would not be the case if it was found that you had sabotaged those betrothals. Then the estates would revert to the next male heir,” Monkton said with a supercilious smile.

Seth used his shirt to dry his face, regarding Monkton curiously.

“I did not realise there was another heir. Have you found one besides myself?” he asked.

“I have,” Monkton said with definite satisfaction.

“Well, well. You have family after all, Seth,” Elliot chuckled, “who is he, Mr. Monkton?”

“I am curious myself. I have no brothers, and neither did my father,” Seth murmured.

“But your grandfather did. Your father had an uncle, and the heir has been found on his side of the family,” Monkton replied.

“I am the heir,” Seth retorted.

“Unless you break the marriage clause of your father’s will, which I am duty-bound to enforce. As you have been reluctant to reply to correspondence from my office, I have been forced to seek you out in order to relay this information in person.”

“Who is this usurper who would claim my birthright?” Seth demanded, suddenly cold inside.

“I am not at liberty to say. Suffice it to say that he has been informed of the clause and of the position he holds should the conditions of the clause not be met. There, I have discharged my duty.”

He smiled unctuously, rubbing his long-fingered hands together as though to warm them.

“You have, and I have an engagement with my dear betrothed,” Seth said faintly.

Suddenly, the game I have been playing has become deadly serious. I must not be caught out, or I will be unable to afford even this garret. Damn the old devil. All I’ve ever wanted is my freedom. Now, he seeks to control me from the grave as he controlled me in life.

“I wish you the best of luck in this last betrothal, Your Grace. I shall be watching closely,” Monkton remarked. “And I will not detain you from your dear fiancée any longer. Good morning to you both.”

He took his leave with a bow. Elliot watched him go with astonishment.

“I say, old man, but that’s a rum chap. Imagine speaking to one’s employer in such a way!”

Seth stared at the empty doorway broodingly.

“He knows how much power he holds over me, Elliot, and revels in it.”

“Then blast the fellow’s eyes. Marry and then dismiss him from your service for his insolence,” Elliot muttered.

“I should like nothing better,” Seth sighed, discarding his now damp shirt and fetching another from the wardrobe in the other room. “If only I could hold onto a woman long enough to marry.”

“Well, you do not help yourself, but I will not say more. The Lord moves his wonders to perform in mysterious ways.” His friend tossed him a towel. “That is why he brought us together all those years ago at school. I will help you overcome the baser side of your nature. I recommend letting this place go to start with, and living like a proper Christian gentleman. But first things first. We must go to Hyde Park. You have an engagement to keep.”

“And an engagement to save!” Seth said with enthusiasm that he hoped was convincing.

I have tried to sink that same engagement without being seen to, just as I did with those other two forced betrothals. But now there is a legitimate alternative to me as Duke of Redmaine. I must take great care, or I may lose everything!

Chapter Three

Prescott Estate, London

1814

A month after receiving the letter from Amelia and Charlotte found herself standing at the gates of the Prescott Estate.

She had forgotten how large it was.

Behind her, Brook Street bustled with carriages and pedestrians. The sun was bright, and Hanover Square was verdant. Ladies and gentlemen walked there or sat on its benches in the shade of trees. Charlotte knew that she was Amelia Nightingale to anyone looking at her, anyone who knew the Willoughby family. It only felt to Charlotte that everyone must be staring and wondering who the stranger was that stood at the gates of the Prescott Estate.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the gates, beginning the long way up the winding drive to the house. Along the way, a baker’s cart passed her, its driver tipping his cap.

“Mornin’, Lady Nightingale!” he boomed in a cheery voice.

Charlotte jumped, but then remembered to smile brightly as Amelia would when passing the time of day.

“Good morning to you!” she replied.

Good Lord, but I wish we had kept this up as regularly as we did as youths. I am quite out of practice. It does not seem nearly as much fun as it once was.

As Charlotte approached the house, a gardener was hard at work scything the grass of the park. He gave her a nod of the head and a greeting, to which she replied as she hoped Amelia was accustomed to.

So far, two people have greeted me as though they know who I am, which I must take as a good sign. Amelia is my identical twin, after all. Our own parents sometimes could not tell us apart, and our governess never could. Have some confidence, Charlotte!

Prescott House was a five-story house of red brick and white plaster, set in its own grounds amid the clutter of London’s buildings. Its park was screened from the rest of the city by tall trees and hedges, creating an oasis within the cold stone of the city.

Charlotte did not recognize the gardener and could not remember a name. She hoped that Amelia’s notes would act as an aide to memory, as she would not be able to keep up the pretense of being her sister if she could not remember the names of any of the household.

She opened the front door and found herself in a busy hall. Servants were at work, dusting and sweeping. With a sense of dread, Charlotte realized that she did not recognize any of them. They all seemed to know her, though, falling into bows or curtsies as she walked through the house to the stairs.

“Claire, did you borrow my good bonnet again?” came a female voice from the stairs, just ahead.

Charlotte stopped, recognizing the voice of her cousin Francis. She was ascending when Francis Willoughby appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Amelia, I thought you were Claire! Have you seen my sister? I cannot find my new bonnet.”

Francis was slender and petite with brown hair and a button nose.

“I have not. I have just returned from a walk, taking the air,” Charlotte replied, haltingly.

Francis turned to go back up the stairs and then glanced back.

“A walk? Odd time is it not?”

Charlotte was at a loss, not knowing what made it seem an odd time to go for a walk.

What can be happening that going for a walk in the morning sunshine would seem odd?

“Is that what you’re wearing? Mama will not be pleased after the expense she went to for our dresses,” Francis said without waiting for an answer. “Claire! Stop hiding and produce my bonnet this instant!”

For such a delicate-seeming young woman, she had a loud and strident voice. She disappeared upstairs, leaving Charlotte to breathe a sigh of relief. She hurried after her cousin, ascending to the third floor. She proceeded along a wide hallway, counting doors and praying that she was remembering correctly. At the seventh door, she paused, hesitating before reaching for the doorknob and entering the room.

To her relief, the rooms beyond Amelia’s chambers looked much as she remembered. The first time she had set foot here was when she was thirteen. The last was before her debut when they were both seventeen. Still, the furniture looked new, and the rug seemed barely to have been stepped on at all.

It seems that Amelia is not a second-class citizen in her home as I am in mine. I do not recall that being the case before, however. From what I remember, Amelia had the worst rooms and was treated as little better than a servant, too.

She opened the wardrobe and ran her hand over the dresses that hung within. Then she held the nearest to her face, taking a deep breath. The scent reminded her of Amelia, and she felt a yearning for her sister.

For someone who remembers Mother and Father and those happy days at Carlisle when we were children. When Mother passed away, it was such a shame that twins were considered such a handful by our families. Too much for any one branch of the family to take on. So, we were separated.

As such thoughts always did, Charlotte felt a sense of intense loneliness. She closed the wardrobe door, turning and looking for the escritoire in which Amelia would usually leave instructions for her. She eventually found it in a small sitting room adjoining the bedroom. But opening the lid, she found nothing—no note from Amelia written in the code they had developed as children with which they could converse secretly.

Charlotte felt an abrupt wave of anxiety.

This was not usual.

She herself had left detailed instructions for Amelia. Usually, an extensive correspondence would precede an exchange of lives, followed by a meeting at a halfway point between Yorkshire and London. Add to that the fact that Lucy Robins and Marrie Perrin, the pair’s respective maids, were fully aware of the game.

That is the answer, of course. I shall send for Marie, and she will brief me on Amelia’s life and everything I need to know. How silly of me.

Charlotte saw the bellpull and gave it a tug before sitting on a chaise and composing herself for a few minutes. A short while later, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she called out.

But the maid who entered was not Marie Perrin, Amelia’s maid. The dark-haired woman who stood attentively awaiting her mistress’s instructions was a stranger. Charlotte’s mouth went dry, and for a moment, her mind was blank.

“You rang, my lady?” the woman said.

Those were the words she spoke, but what Charlotte heard was… “You are not Mistress Amelia!”

“Yes, could I have some tea, please?” Charlotte managed at last.

“Tea, of course, mistress. Lady Prescott asked me to relay a message. She asks that you put on the new dress as soon as you may.”

“Of course. I will do that now. Remind me, what is my diary looking like today?”

The maid looked confused, and Charlotte thought she should elaborate.

“It is such a nice day. I thought I would take a stroll in Hyde Park, but I can’t quite remember if I have any appointments today.”

Still, the maid seemed confused, and Charlotte realized with despair that there must be something important happening that Amelia would not have forgotten. Hence the bustle of activity among the servants and Francis’ hunt for her best bonnet.

“I am being silly. Never mind. I will dress now, tell Lady Prescott I shall be ready.”

The maid murmured her obedience and left the room.

“Amelia, whatever are you up to? Why did you not warn me?” Charlotte wondered aloud.

She went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. There were many dresses within, and she realized that she did not know which one was new. A couple looked very fine, but she could not tell if one was newer than the other. Another knock came at the door, and Charlotte took out both of the dresses and laid them on the bed, trying to decide which Aunt Phyllis wanted her to wear.

“Cousin?” came a male voice.

“Come in, Reginald,” Charlotte replied, for it could be no one else.

Cousin Reginald was the eldest child of Phyllis and the late Percival Willoughby. Francis was next, then Claire. Aunt Phyllis was the sister to Lucy Nightingale, Charlotte, and Amelia’s mother. A simple family, complicated by the hostilities of in-laws and siblings. 

Reginald entered the room, dressed in sumptuous purple satin and sporting an onyx stone in his cravat pin. Charlotte remembered that Reginald had always cared deeply for clothes and was glad that she had remembered correctly.

“There you are. You are not dressed yet. I will not tell Mother; she will pull her hair out. I should not delay you much longer, though. There is little time. I was surprised to see you walking this morning, today of all days.”

“I needed to take the air. Perhaps because the house has been so hectic this morning,” Charlotte replied airily, “but as time is of the essence, was there something you wanted, Reginald?”

Reginald looked back over his shoulder and then closed the door, advancing into the room. He lowered his voice.

“Simply to ask if you have had an opportunity to speak to Victoria on my behalf? To explain? After our last conversation, I have been searching for an opportunity to get you on your own, but first, you were away, and then there was all this damnable fuss. I feel like I have had no opportunity to speak to you in private for a fortnight!”

His eyes were wide and imploring, his voice earnest. Charlotte felt sympathy for him and wondered at her sister for leaving her cousin in the middle of a situation she had clearly promised to help him with.

If there was something to be done, then why would she suddenly want to switch places? And if I am expected to make good on her promise, why would she leave no word? I must find Marie and discover what is happening!

“I have not, I am afraid, Reginald. But I will rest assured,” Charlotte replied with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping Reginald would accept it.

He nodded, smiling gratefully.

“The thought of dear Victoria continuing in ignorance, believing me to be interested in that… other woman is maddening. I wish there were a way out of this situation where I could simply follow my heart. I fear the responsibility of being heir to the Prescott line is a heavy one.”

Charlotte smiled. “It must be. Do not fret. I shall speak to Victoria and explain as soon as today is done with.”

Reginald nodded, and Charlotte decided to take a chance. She picked one of the two dresses and held it up in front of her.

“What do you think? Does it suit?”

Reginald glanced at the other dress.

“I think Mama would rather you wore the new one. It was expensive enough. If she sees you in anything else, she will not be best pleased. She regards today as the culmination of a great deal of time and effort. Like a peace treaty negotiated between two warring nations.”

Charlotte smiled brightly and picked up the other dress.

At least I know what I am supposed to be wearing, though I know precious little else. Today is an important social event for Aunt Phyllis, but I do not know what is expected of me. I know my cousin is in love with a lady called Victoria, but is she expected to marry another? At least that is my deduction. I hope Grace can tell me who Victoria is.

“Have you seen Marie this morning?” Charlotte asked.

Reginald was turning to leave, but this seemed to stop him in his tracks.

“Marie? Your old maid?”

“Hardly old, Reginald,” Charlotte replied, “she is of an age with me.”

“Old as in previous, Amelia. As in no longer with us,” Reginald said as though stating the perfectly obvious.

Charlotte’s heart sank. There would be no help forthcoming. She was alone.

“Yes, I know. I-I was being silly,” Charlotte managed, stuttering, “I shall have to dig out her forwarding address…”

“Forwarding address?” Reginald furrowed his brows, “are you quite well, Amelia? Marie returned to France, as you should know. Quite unexpectedly. You were devastated for a while. Perhaps I should ask Doctor Fox to pay you a visit.”

“No, no, Reginald! I am quite well. I am merely a little… overwhelmed by the circumstances,” Charlotte stammered in panic. “I really must dress now, if you will excuse me.”

She ushered him from the room and closed the door behind him. Then she paced the room, hands to her head.

What have you landed me in, Amelia? I should come clean with Aunt Phyllis, admit everything. Except that would end any chance of Amelia and me ever doing this again. And it has been so exciting in the past. Exchanging a quiet country life for one of society balls in London.

She reached a decision and hurried to the escritoire. The only course of action was to write to Amelia at Hamilton House—or rather, write to herself, for then it would be delivered to Amelia, posing as her. She would tell Amelia that she had forgotten the usual routine and needed to tell Charlotte urgently all she needed to know. The letter was half written when there came a short, sharp rap on the door.

“I am nearly ready and do not need any help getting dressed!” she called out.

Quickly, she shed her dress and took up the new gown. It was far more elaborate than anything she had worn before. Stepping into it, she began to struggle with the intricate buttons. She heard the door open and looked around, expecting to see the maid who had attended her or perhaps Aunt Phyllis, informed by her son that Amelia was acting very strangely.

It was neither.

A tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired young man stood in the doorway—or filled the doorway rather. He had the frame of a warrior chieftain, a physical presence that made it feel as though she were standing close to him even when he was several feet away.

His hair hung to his shoulders, and his cheekbones were high and slanted. He looked like a prince of the distant east, strange and exotic. And quite the most beautiful man Charlotte had ever seen…

“I am glad, for once, that it is not I who is late,” he murmured.

“Who are you?!” Charlotte breathed before flushing deeply.

Amelia clearly knows him, why else would he walk into her bedroom unannounced and uninvited?

The man arched an eyebrow, one of his mouths quirking into a smile.

“How odd. But I shall play along, Amelia. I am Seth Redmaine, Duke of Bellmonte, and…”

He advanced into the room, moving with impossible grace for a man of his stature. Charlotte found herself breathless with anticipation as he neared her. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped. Charlotte found herself disappointed, wild thoughts of being swept into his arms running through her mind.

“And?” she asked with a gasp.

“Your betrothed,” Seth grinned.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 4th of August