Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

I have seen the Duke of Ashden, and he is a proud and handsome man. I do not approve of his aloof manner. However, I have no choice but to seek him out — Anna’s journal entry.

Anna wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pulled her drenched black wool cloak tighter about her body, the pain in her side growing worse. She trudged forward, praying she was on the right path, and that she would find the manor before this downpour defeated her.

She had done what no respectable lady should do, every bone in her body was chilled, and she was on the verge of shedding the tears she promised she would never allow to fall. The sky flashed and thunder clapped in the distance, sending a quiver through her, but Anna continued up the steep winding road because her will to be freed was greater than her fear of a storm and whatever malady it might bring her.

Dawnton Hall appeared when she reached the highest point of the road, and the relief that expanded her chest nearly had her falling onto her knees. Her boots squelched the mud harder as her steps quickened, using the last of her strength to find solace.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the magnificent monument before her but she was blind to all beauty at this time. Staggering to the massive wooden door, she raised a stiff gloved hand and pulled the brass knocker, then she leaned on the doorframe, shivering. At that same moment, a clock within the manor chimed, announcing the midnight hour.

For what felt like a long while, no one answered, and she was pushing herself upright to knock again when she heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door opened very slightly at first, amber light from within streaming out, then it widened and the butler appeared, distinguished by his livery.

“I have t-to see t-the Duke,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He took in her appearance as though he was determining her rank before he responded. “His Grace has retired for the evening, Ma’am. Please return in the morning.” Then he began to close the door.

Angered by the cold dismissal, she wedged her arm between the door and the frame. “I am Annelise Hampton. Daughter of B-baron Hampton, and I have walked f-for four hours in the rain!” She hated having to use her father’s name to gain influence but more would be at stake if she was not allowed inside.

The butler’s neat eyebrows furrowed as he hesitated, but then he gave a slight nod and opened the door wider, stepping away from it. “Please, come inside, Ma’am.” Anna stepped into a great hall, turning left to follow the butler into a receiving room while trailing mud. He set the candelabra on a table to light the small room.

“I will have some tea brought to help you warm, Ma’am. Please do be seated.”

“And t-the Duke?” She glanced at the fine chairs in the room and decided that she had no wish to ruin them.

“His Grace has very strict orders. He is never to be disturbed once he has retired.”

Anna bit her lip and briefly closed her eyes. At least I am inside, she thought, but she could not be content with that. “I…I will assume all responsibility for the disturbance. Please w-wake him.”

“Ma’am—”

“You will be saving a life if you do!” she insisted.

Just then, footfalls sounded in the great hall, and her shoulders tensed as she hoped that it was the Duke. She ground her teeth when a man who was not the Duke appeared in the doorway. The butler whispered something to him before he took a step forward and addressed her.

“Mr. Bishop at your service, Ma’am. I am His Grace’s valet, and I can confirm that he will not be able to receive you at this time.”

Anna turned and carefully lowered herself into a chair, looking straight ahead instead of at them. “Then I will wait here until he is able to receive me,” she said.

Mr. Bishop and the butler exchanged some words before he said, “Please come to the drawing-room where there is a fire to warm you, Ma’am.”

It was no promise that she would see the Duke but it was a step in a good direction, and Anna was glad. Rising, she followed him out to the great hall and further into an exquisitely furnished drawing-room. Its warmth shrouded her, and for the first time in a very long while, she felt as though she could be safe.

The fire in the hearth beckoned, and she went to it, removing her sodden gloves and cloak. He bowed and left her alone. Holding her frozen fingers toward the warmth, she clenched her jaw and held herself together with considerable effort. She was close. Very.

A moment later, a maid walked in bearing a salver that she set on the table a short distance from where Anna stood. Then she curtsied and gestured at the drenched cloak on the floor. “May I take your cloak, Ma’am?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Anna moved to sit in the chair closest to the table and reached for the teapot, pouring some of the aromatic tea into a cup. Instead of remaining seated, she stood and returned to the fire, the large portrait of a woman that hung above the mantle catching her attention.

She was beautiful with soft blue eyes and lustrous chestnut hair. Anna supposed she was the late duchess, especially because of where the portrait was placed. Moving slowly away from the fireplace, she saw the duke on the other end of the room. His portrait, that is.

She walked and stopped in front of it, swallowing. His blue eyes regarded her coolly, and his strong mouth was pressed into an unamused line. He had dark blonde hair, and the artist had managed to capture the blue-deviled mien he always seemed to wear.

Anna had only seen him twice at a ball, but he had awed her on both occasions, not because he was impossibly handsome, but because of the authority he commanded. That authority was the reason she was here tonight, seeking sanctuary.

Please, she prayed as she gazed up at him, hoping that she had done right in coming here and that he would be able to help her.

Chapter Two

I detest solitude, and I often wonder how people spend their time alone; if they crave company as much as I do.

Colin Maxwood raised his teacup to his mouth and sipped the rich valerian tea, his eyes moving around the drawing on the desk he was hunched over in the sitting room that was part of the four rooms that made up his chambers. The corner of his mouth tipped when thunder roared and he picked up a pencil, marking the drawing.

Evenings like this were good for his mind. Where storms robbed some of their attention, they enabled him to concentrate. He also appreciated every bit of solitude afforded to him. His brows immediately snapped when a knock came at his door, however. The door opened and Bishop stepped into the chamber.

“I asked to not be disturbed,” Colin said immediately, raising his head to regard his valet, ensuring his displeasure was clear. He had given very simple instructions, and would not have them disobeyed.

Bishop’s bow was deep and contrite. “Your Grace, I do not disturb you out of disrespect but necessity. There is a young woman here seeking an audience with you. A Miss Annelise Hampton. Baron Hampton’s daughter.”

One of Colin’s eyebrows rose. “At this hour? Who did she arrive with?” He glanced at the brass clock on his desk, wondering what would bring a lady to his manor after midnight.

“Yes, Your Grace, and she is unaccompanied.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Did she lose her way?”

Bishop’s face tightened. “No, I do not believe she did, Your Grace. She walked for four hours in the rain with the single purpose of seeing you. She is very persistent, too, and seems determined to wait for however long it would take you to grant her wish.”

At that, Colin set down his pencil and rose. There was certainly trouble if she would walk in the rain to find him, and he could not ignore it. This was not the way he imagined his evening would go, but he had learned a very long time ago, that what he wished for was in constant battle with what actually occurred.

“She is in the drawing room, and I ordered for some tea to be taken to her,” Bishop supplied.

Colin nodded and walked past him out of the sitting room, drawing the lapels of his black banyan together over his shirt. He was not acquainted with her, and although he knew her father, he could not think of any reason why she was here. He descended the steps to the great hall and the first thing he saw was a maid cleaning mud off the marble.

The butler, Chalker, bowed and pointed at the right drawing room. Colin turned in that direction. Miss Hampton stood in front of his portrait with her back to him, but she turned the instant she heard him walk in, her face ghostly pale, and her tall figure shivering in a soaked dark green velvet dress.

She watched him with eyes as large and dark as a doe’s, her slender fingers curled around her teacup, before curtsying slowly.

“Are you not cold?” he asked, going toward the fire.

“I am,” she replied, her voice soft. Too soft, in fact, and it affected him in a way that he did not anticipate.

“Then should you not be closer to the fire?”

Her shoulders visibly grew rigid when thunder clapped, and she swallowed, glancing out the window before she returned her eyes to his. She was afraid, and he frowned, his concern growing.

“Please, Miss Hampton, come to the fire,” he said, and she came toward him after a moment’s hesitation. She stood about a foot away from him but did not sit. “Are you going to sit?” he asked.

“Look at my dress, Your Grace. I have no wish to ruin your chairs.” She sipped her tea.

Oh, you should not have said that. His eyes moved slowly down her green dress that clung to her form, and his blood rushed faster in his veins, sending an erotic thrill to his manhood.

Colin averted his gaze to stop himself from growing. “I will not be offended if you spoil my chairs. Please sit.”

“If you insist.” She lowered herself onto the edge of a chair and set her empty teacup down on the table. He noticed a slight discoloration on her arm but her dress sleeve concealed it before he could guess what it was.

“How may I help you?” he asked, sitting in the chair opposite her, and not wishing to waste her or his time.

She brushed a lock of her matted dark hair from her pale shoulder, driving his thoughts in a direction he did not want them heading. “I learned you are seeking a wife,” she said, and his body tensed. “I want to be your wife.”

Colin blinked. Surely, this was not the true reason she had come here. And if it was, he did not know how to respond in a gentlemanly manner.

Chapter Three

Disappointment ought to be an old friend for how often we have encountered each other, yet it continues to laugh at me. I am also certain at this point that I am not fond of the Duke. He appears to be in want of the tenderness a woman requires from a man.

“I beg your pardon?” Colin asked because he was unable to come up with a better reaction.

Folding her hands on her lap, Miss Hampton calmly repeated her request. “I am asking you to marry me, Your Grace.”

She is not jesting. Colin had to admire her brazenness. He was seeking a wife, that much was true, but he could not marry just any woman. Since he made his intentions public, he had received offers from several gentlemen on behalf of their daughters and sisters, and even from widows, but never from a young lady.

He allowed several long seconds to pass before he shook his head. “I am flattered by your offer, Miss Hampton, but this is not done.”

She pressed her lips together. “You do not look like a man who is flattered.”

“But I am, Miss Hampton,” he responded. Of all the offers he had received, hers complimented him the most because she had personally come to him, which also disturbed him. “However, I cannot accept it.”

“Because I did not send my father to ask on my behalf?” she challenged, and both of his eyebrows rose.

That, and she was not the sort of woman he would take for a wife. She was too pale and slender, and she would certainly take offense if he told her that. His ability to be tactful had never been tested like this before.

“Yes,” he lied.

Miss Hampton straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She would not be defeated by that simple word, he realized. “I am one-and-twenty, Your Grace. I do not need my father’s consent to marry.”

“I see.” He leaned forward and took her cup, seeking more time to think of a better way to reject her. “You should have more tea.” He tipped the teapot over the cup and filled it before giving it to her. Their fingers brushed as she took the cup, and his jaw tightened. His body certainly was contradicting his opinion of her appearance. “Why are you unaccompanied?”

“No one knew I left the house,” she replied. She did not lack ways to shock him. “I rode the coach, and when it stopped ten miles short, I walked.”

“Your family must be looking all over London for you.”

Her long lashes covered her eyes and she raised a small shoulder in a detached shrug. “Yes, but I am not in London.”

“Forgive me, but I struggle to understand why you will disregard your safety and reputation to come here to ask me to marry you when we have never met before.” Her father had a respectable fortune, and so Colin was willing to dismiss her intentions as being mercenary. Perhaps she was being coerced to marry a man she did not want.

“I want to marry you,” she simply insisted. Bishop was right. She was persistent.

“Why?”

She shifted slightly in her seat before she proudly asked, “Is my previous answer not sufficient?”

“Intentions are very important to me, Miss Hampton.”

“I am not after your fortune, Your Grace, nor did I ever have the desire to become a duchess.” When she reached to set her teacup down again, he saw another mark on the underside of her arm near her elbow. He could be mistaken but he thought it looked like a bruise.

“Then is it my body?” Colin asked, and her pale face gained color for the first time since he saw her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is lust the reason for your proposal?” he clarified, even though he was sure she understood the first time. The heat in his blood increased as her flush deepened.

“How conceited and presumptuous of you, Your Grace, but no. That is not the reason I am here.”

Her words stung his pride, and he inhaled. “Have you no concern for the sharpness of your words, Miss Hampton?”

Her composure faltered, and her dark eyes blazed with the fire in the hearth. “Have you no concern for yours? To assume that wealth, power, and lust are my only motivations is offensive. You have no wish to marry me, I understand that, but you did not have to pronounce your ignoble assumptions.”

Colin had not anticipated such a passionate defense from her, and he took a moment to mentally compliment her. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “As I said earlier. Intentions are important to me.”

She rose, her posture straight and noble. “As they are to me.” She curtsied gracefully as he joined her in standing. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.” Then she turned and began walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

She paused but did not turn. “Back to London. I have no cause to remain in Hertfordshire any longer.”

Colin strode after her, and acting purely on impulse, he took her hand. It was small and cold in his, and suddenly, he wanted to draw her close and warm her. He abruptly released her. “What manner of man would I be if I allowed you to go out in this storm?”

“I will find no fault in such an action. After all, you were not expecting me, but were gracious enough to see me.” She was disappointed, and he felt some guilt, but it was not enough to sway his decision. He had specific requirements that the woman he was going to marry must meet, and Miss Hampton did not appear to fulfill any of them.

“Please stay, and I will have you safely returned to your family in the morning.”

She stiffened when he said that, and her face tightened. Colin took her hand again and began to guide her back to the chairs, noticing the mark on her arm, and confirming it was a bruise now that he was close enough.

He did not think she would tell him what had happened to her if he asked. After all, she had refused to tell him why she wanted him to marry her. When she was seated, he said, “I will have your bedchamber shown to you in a moment. Please excuse me.” Then he strode out of the drawing room.

***

Anna watched the Duke of Ashden walk away, her chest clenching. She had wanted to beg him to marry her, even tell him the reason she wanted it, but he had made it rather apparent that he had no desire to marry her. From the little she knew about him, he was not the sort of man who easily changed his mind. Besides, she had her pride and dignity to keep intact, even though her reputation was tattered now.

She had risked everything to crawl out of perdition, but it seemed she was going to be sent back into it. Closing her eyes, she released her breath and let her shoulders fall. She could hear Ashden speaking with someone in the great hall, and a moment later, he returned to the room.

Anna straightened and raised her eyes to his. Desire might not have been enough to make her offer her hand to him in marriage but his mere presence affected her in a sensual manner. Another reason she had chosen him. Anna had felt his power from across a ballroom and wondered what his hands would feel like on her flesh.

“Miss Hampton, my housekeeper, Mrs. Willis, will be with you momentarily. I regret that I cannot keep your company for longer.”

“Yes. You must retire.” She inclined her head. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

He lingered, his keen blue eyes studying her. “I hope you have a pleasant night, Miss Hampton.”

“You as well, Your Grace.”

His lips parted as though he was going to say something more to her but then pressed them together and turned to the door, changing his mind.

Shortly after his departure, a stout woman walked in and curtsied. “I am Mrs. Willis,” she introduced. Her smile was warm and kind, something Anna was not accustomed to receiving.

With a lump constricting her throat, Anna stood, acknowledging her greeting with a nod, for she was gradually becoming more distraught. Then she followed her out of the drawing room and up the stairs.

They arrived at a bedchamber with pale blue walls and cream-colored curtains. A fire was already burning in the hearth, and several candles made the room bright and welcoming. A maid stood by the large four-poster bed in the middle of the room, drawing the dark blue covers and placing hot bricks underneath.

“I hope the chamber is to your liking, Miss,” Mrs. Willis said.

“Yes, it is,” Anna replied, standing stiffly. She wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and sleep, but she also wanted to cry. She had wasted her time by coming here, and now she was filled with regret. She might have found another way out of her predicament had she carefully thought about everything.

“Now, we must quickly free you from those drenched clothes before you catch a cold.” Mrs. Willis pointed toward a screen that stood on one side of the room.

“I might already have,” Anna said, mustering a small smile as she moved behind the screen. She was already feeling feverish.

“Oh my goodness!” The housekeeper placed a concerned hand on her chest. “Mason, have more tea brought up,” she ordered the maid by the bed. It was the same maid who had brought her tea in the drawing room.

Anna reached behind her to unfasten her dress buttons, and when Mrs. Willis’ hands joined hers, she started.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss—”

Anna quickly shook her head. “Please do not mind me. I was only startled. The journey to the manor has been rather long.” And lonely.

Mrs. Willis gave her a commiserating look. “It must have been.” Then her eyes widened when Anna’s dress was pulled down and she got a good look at the bruises on her arms. Anna looked away, hoping the blank expression she wore was enough to tell the housekeeper that she did not wish to be questioned.

It worked, but Mrs. Willis continued to give her concerned and curious glances as she helped her out of her stays. When she had only her shift on, which was thankfully only damp, the housekeeper bundled up her clothes and asked her if she would like to eat, but Anna declined, too tired.

Alone, she got beneath the covers and drew the duvet up to her chin, wiggling her toes as the warmth all around her seeped into her body. She thought she would be able to fall asleep immediately, but she could feel the slumber moving very far away from her grasp.

Mrs. Willis and the maid returned, and instead of just tea on the tray, there was also soup and bread. “I will insist you have some soup, Miss. London is really quite far from Ashden.”

Anna sat up, wondering if the woman knew that she had proposed to the Duke. The tray was set down on a table by the bed, and Mrs. Willis brought the bowl to her.

A taste of the creamy soup was all it took for Anna to realize how hungry she was, and within minutes, she had gobbled everything and was pouring some tea into a cup and adding sugar.

She looked curiously around the room as she took small languid sips, noticing a bookshelf between the two large windows on her left. She got out of the bed and went to it, examining the spines of the books there. A volume with the name of the manor in gold caught her attention and she selected it, moving to a chair by the fire. The rain was not as ferocious as it had been earlier, and as she thumbed the pages, she found her mood improving. Perhaps she could change the Duke’s mind.

A thud outside her bedchamber made her head snap quickly toward the door. Setting both her teacup and the book down on a lacquered table closest to the chair, she drew up the blanket that was draped over the back of a sofa and covered herself with it, and the curiosity her parents had spent years stifling came to the surface.

Quietly, Anna opened the door and poked her head out into the hallway. When she saw no one, she stepped out into it, looking around the darkness and wondering what had made that sound. The manor was beautiful, she noticed, much more beautiful than the hundred-year-old manor her father was immensely proud of in Berkshire.

Her steps carried her down the hall where she took a right turn at the end and walked down another, narrower, hallway. Lightning briefly illuminated the place to show her a door at the far end. It looked like all of the doors along the hall, white with gold scrolls along the borders, but something inexplicable drew her to it.

A hand suddenly circled her elbow and she jumped, her heart kicking fiercely against her ribcage.

“We should not be here, Miss,” Mrs. Willis said, drawing her away and back toward her bedchamber.

Anna was glad that it was someone familiar, but her heart did not slow, and her sudden movement made the pain in her side more pronounced. Despite that, she was tempted to ask Mrs. Willis why she was discouraged from exploring the manor but resisted because she was a guest and had no business there.

“I would suggest resting, Miss,” the housekeeper said when they reached her bedchamber. “You have a journey early in the morning.”

“Early?” Anna asked, surprised.

“Yes. Quite early. Please rest.” Then Mrs. Willis turned and walked down the hall before Anna could react. An odd, cold feeling washed over her and she retreated into the room, pressing a hand to her belly.

She could not go back to the house she was raised in. She would be doomed if she did. 

Look out for its release on the 2nd of November!

Chapter One

 Westfront Castle, 1814

“Father!” Rupert yells as he saw the two men emerge from the shadows.

George Wellington whirls, lamp held high as the two men seemed to surface from the wall itself. One of them draws a blade, the metal catching the golden light of the lamp and flashing wickedly. Rupert begins to run, shouting for help, though he and his father should be the only ones awake in the house. The servants are too far away to help. The hallway stretches before Rupert as he races towards the open doorway, through which he can see the frozen tableau.

George Wellington is tall and barrel-chested, standing in his shirt, breeches, and stockinged feet. His head turns towards a pistol, lying on a dusty wooden chest. His right-hand reaches towards it, though it is too far away. The blade is arcing through the air, held low, and swung upwards to strike George under the ribcage. There is no sound as the blade melts into him and George’s mouth opens to expel his last breath.

The lamp falls from nerveless fingers, shattering on the flagstone floor, spilling lighted oil. Rupert’s feet are mired in a bog. No matter how much he pumps his legs he cannot produce any more speed and the hallway remains long, its end unreachable. He is screaming for his father, reaching toward the terrible sight framed by the doorway. The second man is stepping out of the shadows, wielding a thick cudgel. George Wellington is lurching towards the pistol, fighting with the last of his strength, his body tearing the blade from the hands of the man who wielded it. The hilt of a long knife is sticking from beneath George’s ribs as his fingers brush the butt of the pistol.

Then the cudgel comes down on the back of his head and he collapses, limp and still. The doorway rushes towards Rupert and he is suddenly in the room. Two faces swim up into his vision. One is capped with black, curly hair. Thick eyebrows are drawn down over dark eyes. The face is square, with a jutting chin. He wields the cudgel. The other is looking up at Rupert as he stoops to retrieve his knife. Except, Rupert now sees that it isn’t a knife. It is a bayonet. That one has long, fair hair tied at the nape of his neck. A blue tattoo of a star stands out on his cheek. A sneering grin reveals a gold tooth.

The bayonet is being drawn back, still wet with the blood of his father. It is being prepared to stab again, but before its wielder can bring it home, the man with the cudgel swings. There is a moment of blinding pain and then darkness.

Rupert opened his eyes. He knew they were open because he could feel the movement against them. But that was the only way he had of knowing. For his vision was dark. Utterly dark. It had been dark since the cudgel had struck the side of his head when he had been a young man of twenty years. Struck him as he had raced to his father’s aid. The faces of the two men loomed up against the perpetual dark that enveloped his surroundings. Square Jaw and Sailor. Those were the names he had given to those two strangers. The vague outline of their faces had been the last sights he had ever seen.

For a moment he lay, purposefully putting the sight away. It would return. The nightmare never went away completely. The way the men melted out of the walls had not been the stuff of dreams though. That was an accurate recollection of what had happened. One moment he had been walking along the narrow hallway, in search of his father. Seeing him through the door, the two men had appeared out of the shadows. Literally. There was no door or window where they had emerged. Just bare stone. One moment they had been there and the next…

Put it from your mind for now and focus on the business of the day. Six years have been wasted in search of Square Jaw and Sailor. And you know no more about who they were or why Papa was killed than you did at the beginning. This might be your only chance.

He sat up and threw back the bed clothes. The bed was positioned beneath the window and there was a standing rule that the curtains in Westfront Castle were never closed. Rupert could judge the time of day and even weather conditions by the feel of the sun, or lack of it, on his skin.

A little after seven from the strength of the sun. And a blustery day from the way the sunlight is being covered up and revealed in rapid succession. No sound of rain and…

Drawing in a deep breath, he sampled the air which reached him through the window, which had been left open a crack. Another standing rule.

A taste of moisture in the air. It has been raining. Excellent weather for a stroll then.

Standing now, he walked to the wardrobe, knowing the exact number of steps to reach it, and lifted his hand to take the handle of one of the doors at the precise moment he was close enough. Within, his clothes were hung from a rail and folded in drawers. Pieces of string tied with varying numbers of knots told him the color of the hanging clothes. Notches carved into the drawers did the same.

Bless you, Doctor Rex Taunton, my old friend. For turning your genius to adapting life for a blind man when you could have been following your father into practice on Harley Street.

Dressing was simple. So simple that he had long since dispensed with the services of a valet for this particular task. A matter of practice that he had long perfected. The hair was harder to tame but, he was told, the fashion was currently for men to be unruly on their heads. So, he raked fingers through his ash-blond mane. A hand to his jaw told him the beard was in need of a trim.

A task that is well within Ashton’s skills. Another gift from God, a manservant I trust more than I would a brother.

Rupert moved to the door of his room, which was kept deliberately free of clutter and furniture to make his life easier. Similarly, the corridor outside had no rugs, lest he trip, no cabinets or tables for objet d’art, and no paintings or decorations, for he could not see them. Westfront Castle had been described as austere by visitors. Rupert loved art, but only that which he could experience through touch. Or, as in the case of his garden, with the addition of smell. Sculptures were placed in alcoves along the walls, chosen for their texture and shape.

Statues stood in the larger rooms and wider halls, their position memorized by Rupert so that he could navigate those places easily. Rex had come up with other innovations to help with the avoidance of stumbles and falls. As Rupert made his way down to the breakfast room, he heard a tinkling bell. That was the result of a servant stepping on a board in front of one statue at the head of the stairs on the first floor. The board tugged a string that rang a bell. The pitch of the bell told Rupert exactly what the statue was, an abstract piece of his own devising.

“Morning, Helen,” Rupert said, knowing which member of staff was assigned to this floor at this time of day.

“Morning, Your Grace,” Helen replied.

In the breakfast room, Rupert let his hand play along the tabletop until he reached the place set for him. A piece of slate, cold to the touch compared to the cotton of the tablecloth, marked the spot. Sunlight warmed his face, uninterrupted for several minutes, judged by the ticking of the grandfather clock. He ran his fingers across the slate until they touched the scratches put there by Ashton. He read those scratches with deft fingers, telling him the approximate contents of the morning’s mail. Picking up a piece of flint tied to one corner of the slate, Rupert marked the notes that he wished to read over breakfast.

Or rather, have read to him.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Ashton said, after entering the room and scanning the slate.

Rupert sat still. Ashton’s voice had been neutral, as always. Rupert had to press his hands to the table to still their trembling. As usual, only one letter had been marked for reading. It concerned the identity of his father’s killers.

Chapter Two

“Audrey, I do declare, you are more interested in that animal than you are in what I have been saying,” Hannah said.

Audrey stood before the small pen she had made of hay bales, watching the sleeping fox within. The splint around its broken leg could be removed any day now, she thought, as the bones felt whole again. The little creature was still very docile and easily tired as a result of the injury and pain it had suffered, after being caught in a poacher’s snare. She smiled down at it and only then processed her cousin’s words.

She tucked a lock of her black, curly hair behind her ear and looked at Hannah, who stood holding her skirts fastidiously off the floor of the barn. Audrey had flashing green eyes and high cheeks, inherited from her mother. The lush dark hair came from her father. Hannah, the daughter of Audrey’s aunt, on her mother’s side, shared the green eyes and high cheeks, though her hair was straight and fiery red. The differences between them did not end there.

Audrey’s dress was simple linen and bore the marks of wood and field, her favorite haunts. Ink stained her fingers and smudged her cheek, from the drawing she had been doing of a flower she had not seen before. Hannah’s dress was silk and she would never venture out with Audrey on one of her nature rambles. The old barn, screened from the view of Flintbank House by a copse of ash trees, was as far as Hannah would venture.

“Sorry, Hannah. I was miles away,” Audrey said.

“You always are. And you are always in this gloomy place when I come by for a visit.”

Hannah shuddered as she looked around the ramshackle place. The only reason Frederick Bennet, Audrey’s father, had not demolished the place when he had purchased Flintbank, was because Hannah had pleaded with him not to. And Frederick had been able to refuse nothing of his only child. Since then, it had become her clinic, for tending to animals large and small that she found sick or injured. It was where those wild creatures that she befriended came to be fed. And where those domestic creatures she kept, had their shelter.

Chickens lived in a run at the back of the barn. A family of white mice had an extensive run of their own atop the chicken coop. Cats made beds for themselves in the barn’s loft, and dogs in the scattered straw on the ground.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should pay more attention to the people in my life. But there is so much to learn about the natural world. Sometimes I simply cannot wait to come out here and greet my little family.”

“Menagerie more like,” Hannah scoffed.

Audrey peered at the fox and gave a fond smile.

“Still, the little darling is rather adorable. So fluffy. Reminds me of a bear I had as a child. This bear would not take kindly to being cuddled, unfortunately. When he is well, I shall be sure to take him a long way from here so he is not tempted by the chickens. Anyway, what was it you were telling me?”

She turned her attention to her cousin, who was also her closest friend.

My only friend. Not that I regret that. People are…complicated and difficult. Animals are so much easier. But Hannah is my friend, nonetheless, and deserves my attention.

“Come, let us walk back to the house as we talk, lest we face the wrath of that bear when it wakes,” Hannah said.

Audrey giggled and took the arm that Hannah offered. They walked out of the barn together, following a path that led through the trees and eventually, out onto a wide lawn. Beyond was Flintbank House. A square structure of three floors and made of red brick. Its roof glistened wetly from the recent rain, and chimney’s stood out from several places, all trailing wisps of smoke. The gardens were…busy. Barbara Bennet, Audrey’s mother, was too infirm to tend them, and the extent of the gardens was too much for Audrey alone.

She cultivated the space in the style of the cottage garden instead, allowing nature to run wild in places and producing a profusion of growth that jostled for sunlight. A path of broad paving, with grass and wildflowers growing in between, led through the garden to the house.

“So, as I was telling you of my handsome new neighbor,” Hannah began.

“Handsome? How exciting, do tell,” Audrey replied.

It was the appropriate response, the one Hannah wanted to hear and the one a friend, keen, should give. Such topics of conversation did not appeal to Audrey but she was a dutiful cousin and friend.

“His name is Marcus Freeman and he is the seventh Earl of Coventry. He’s taken a house here in Surrey, a country retreat away from the city. And he’s tall and, oh so charming! He paid a visit to Mama and Papa last week and we engaged in quite a lengthy conversation on the coming season. There is one particular ball happening soon to which he is invited. He has promised to arrange invitations for me and for you.”

Hannah was beside herself with excitement but Audrey felt a sinking feeling which she did her best to hide.

“Me? Why me? You know how I am at dances. It is not somewhere I am most comfortable being,” Audrey said.

“But, Audrey. Papa’s gout has flared up so he cannot travel. Mama does not want to go to London alone so that just leaves me. And I simply cannot attend this particular ball alone. I must be accompanied. Please, Audrey,” Hannah pouted. Then, before Audrey could respond, she sprung up again. “I honestly think that Marcus could be a potential husband for me. I cannot allow another woman to claim him.”

Audrey sighed. It was not the first time she had accompanied Hannah to a dance because her mother and father could not. She found such occasions tedious, and the conversations vapid and uninteresting.

“You are now twenty, Audrey. As am I. That is the age when a woman should be thinking of marriage. Any older and we can think of it all we like, we will not find it. The Earl of Coventry is my chance and I need your help.”

Audrey looked at Hannah’s pleading face. Her plaintive tone was hard to resist.

It is my duty. She is my friend and my family. We must stick together above all else. Doing this for her will make her happy and cost me nothing but an evening of boredom.

“Oh! If you agree, I promise to accompany you to the British museum the next day. I will spend as long there with you as you like,” Hannah quickly added.

That made the trip a brighter prospect for Audrey. The chance to visit the British Museum was one she relished when visiting London, it made enduring the company of the Ton bearable. It was also a reasonable compromise for Hannah to offer.

“Very well. I will come with you. Providing Mama does not need me,” Audrey offered.

“I have already thought of that. I would not leave Aunt Barbara alone any more than you would. My brother has agreed to stay at Flintbank while we are away, to ensure she has all she needs.”

Hannah’s brother, Phillip, was as averse to social functions as Audrey. He would much prefer to lose himself in his theological texts.

“Well, that is all resolved then,” Audrey said brightly, putting some enthusiasm into her voice for Hannah’s sake. “Phillip and Mama will enjoy discussing religion. Mama has become very spiritual since Papa passed.”

“The perfect companion for her!” Hannah enthused, skipping now, still on Audrey’s arm.

They reached the house, the garden giving way to a lawn that was sprinkled with daisies and clovers. French doors on the far side stood open to the Sitting Room. Her mother favored the sitting room at the front of the house, known to all as Mama’s Room. They entered the sitting room, where Sergeant, the Bennet’s butler, had thoughtfully arranged for tea and cakes to be left for his mistress’ return from her menagerie. Hannah seated herself and reached for the teapot.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we returned from London, both of us engaged?”

“Well, I have not given it much thought,” Audrey sighed. “Marriage, I mean.” That wasn’t true.

“Oh, but you must, dear Audrey,” Hannah said. “Time is marching on. As I said, we do not have a limitless supply of it. Men can wait until they are silver-haired if they choose. But, we women cannot.”

Audrey took a cup offered to her by Hannah and sipped it. She was right of course.

And without Papa to provide for us, the duty falls to me. We cannot continue alone. A husband with wealth is what is needed to ensure Mama continues to be cared for and is able to remain in this house. It is my duty.

 

Chapter Three

The aroma of fresh coffee, which Rupert had developed a taste for after his father had made his fortune importing the beans from Brazil, told him where the steaming cup was located. He reached for it and only nudged the cup slightly in finding its delicate handle.

Damn! I must control my emotions.

A drip of hot coffee slid down the cup to touch his fingers.

“Pay it no mind, Ashton,” he ordered, sensing movement from his servant.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ashton replied calmly.

The sound of the man settling himself into his seat once more and straightening out the letter reached Rupert. He put down the cup and wiped the coffee away with a napkin.

“Proceed,” he ordered, keeping iron in his voice.

A blind man must go further than a sighted one in exerting his control over a room. Too easy for people to see me as an invalid unless I am in command and that is made clear.

“To His Grace, the Duke of Westfront.

Your Grace, you do not know me but I am acquainted with you and your family. I am also acquainted, on an intimate level, with the events of the night which saw your father murdered. I have reason to speak up now which I will not bore you with here. Suffice to say, I am now ready to share with you the circumstances and the identity of the men involved. Or, at least, one of them. I think it best this information is shared in person and in public. I suggest the ball that you have planned at your London residence next month. Knowing, as I do, that you do not care to present yourself at the heart of such matters, but rather to remain in the background, I think it will be easy for you to slip away.

I would ask that you meet me on the south grounds beside the contemplation pool at nine o’clock.”

 

Ashton fell silent. Rupert could sense him patiently waiting for his next instruction. No opinion would be ventured or judgment expressed, though the relationship between Rupert and Ashton was closer than the typical master-servant. One could not place as much trust as Rupert put in his chief manservant, out of necessity, without a bond forming. Ashton knew that his view would be sought and had undoubtedly formed his own opinions. But his discipline was supreme. When Rupert asked for it, he would give it.

Who is this person and how do they know of what happened that night? There were four of us. Myself, my father, and his two assailants. Our two assailants.

“Thoughts?” Rupert finally asked.

“The writer mentioned waiting before sharing his alleged knowledge,” Ashton said. “I can think of only two scenarios. One of the men involved is now dead and therefore it is safe for his identity to be revealed.”

“Not an attractive prospect. I would not have either of them dead except at the end of a hangman’s rope,” Rupert said.

Once, he had occupied himself with fantasies of revenge exacted personally. It had almost consumed him utterly. The bitterness and rage had been an unquenchable fire. Like any fire kept stoked with fuel, it had burned hotter and demanded more and more of his mind.

Rex helped me see the folly in that. By God, but it was hard to let go of that hate.

“And the second?” he asked.

“That the writer has found a profit in revealing the identity.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rupert said. “There will be a price for this information. The question is, is it a price that I wish to pay?”

Rupert gestured with his hand. A subtle movement that Ashton understood as inviting comment.

“To be frank, I would wish you to ignore this missive and return your mind to the equilibrium you have sought so long to achieve.”

Rupert smiled. “Ever the loyal retainer, eh, Ashton?”

“Of course, Your Grace. To the core of my being.”

Ashton will always advise me based on my personal interests. He clearly believes that it will not be beneficial to pursue this.

Rupert reached for and found his coffee cup, remembering where on the table it had been placed. The liquid had become tepid and he grimaced at a mouthful, putting it down too hard. Again, he felt wetness on his hand as the beverage spilled. Cup and wetness were soon gone. Ashton responded quickly to the signs of mental dislocation in his employer. A fresh cup was brought. Without conscious thought, Rupert tracked the servant’s movements across the room, to the sideboard, heard the pouring of liquid, smelled fresh coffee, and tracked Ashton back to his side. A cloth was applied to Rupert’s hand and the spillage cleared.

“I will go to London tonight and oversee the preparations for the ball,” Rupert said. “Having made the decision to host a ball, I will do this thing correctly. Or what is the point?”

“Indeed, Your Grace. I will have cases prepared and your carriage readied for the journey.”

“Thank you, Ashton. And I’ll review the rest of the mail later. Leave me for now.”

Ashton left the room. Rupert sipped coffee and, unbidden, the faces of the men who had murdered his father appeared before him.

This morning, my priority was to take my place in society for the purposes of finding a wife. Now, I am embroiled again in the mystery I have spent the last years trying to forget.

After breakfast, Rupert took his morning constitutional. The path he walked was one that was mapped in his mind perfectly. As with the castle interior, nothing was permitted to be changed about the arrangement of the exterior now that Rupert had memorized it. Being outside with the crash of waves and the tang of salt water as the dominant sensations, he could bring back the vivid mental images he had. They were moments of frozen time.

He was remembering the castle for how it was the last time he could see it. It would never age for him, any more than his friend Rex would age, or Ashton for that matter. To Rupert, both men were preserved in amber. He left by the door at the base of the south-east tower, one of the four that the castle possessed, one for each cardinal point of the compass. The walls of Westfront were dark from the assault of centuries of wind and rain. It was made of stone, built as a fortress in the late middle ages, and adapted into a house when such structures were rendered obsolete by the development of artillery.

Its south wall looked out over a cliff top into the English Channel. Rupert’s mood had driven him to that part of the grounds. The most dangerous for a blind man, even one with Rupert’s gifts for using his other senses. But being dragged back into the quest to find his father’s killer sobered him, putting him into a dark and brooding mood. The roar of the sea dominated his hearing, along with the raucous call of the gulls. The salt water had a bitter-sweet smell because it was closely associated with his father.

How many times did he take me to the docks at London or Bristol to see a ship of the Wellington line being prepared to sail or returning to port laden with goods?

George Wellington had been proud of his ships and the far-flung shores they reached.

What was it that brought down assassins upon you? Nothing was taken, though they had the opportunity to steal. It was as though they came for you, father. But why?

The old obsession was returning, dominating his thoughts once more. So much so that he did not register the change in texture beneath his feet. The crunch of gravel had been replaced by the silence of grass, the softness of earth.

“Rupert, for heaven’s sake! Don’t move!” came a voice.

Instinctively, Rupert turned to the source of the voice and then realized his danger.

How far off the path did I stray?

The wind tugged at him, as though to entice him into the abyss. Rupert tried to gauge how close the edge was by sound, then pressed into the tuft his feet, to establish if the ground felt solid. To his horror, he detected a slight slope beneath him, the downturn which the land took shortly before it plummeted to the rocks below. The sound of running footsteps reached him. With a dry mouth, he orientated himself towards the newcomer. It was Rex, the voice told him so.

“By heaven but you gave me a scare. What did you think you were doing, man?” Rex exclaimed, seizing Rupert by the upper arm, and drawing him away from the edge.

“It seems a timely arrival, old boy,” Rupert said, forcing a smile to conceal fear.

“I went to the house and spoke to Ashton. He told me you were taking your morning walk. Whoever heard of a blind man walking along a damned cliff top? There are enough diseases in this world to kill a man without manufacturing additional risk.”

“Good day to you too, Doctor,” Rupert replied drily. “One can always rely on the medical profession for frankness and honesty.”

“This member of it anyway. Your personal physician. Now, what is this all about? This is not your usual routine and you are a creature of routine.”

Rupert felt the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and allowed tense muscles to relax. He felt Rex turn him by the shoulders, knowing that his friend was orientating him to face in the direction of safety.

“Walk with me, Rex. To the west gardens, I think. Far less excitement to be found there.”

“Amen to that,” Rex said. 

Releases on 28th

Prologue

April 1812

“There are not enough elephants in Africa to make me consider marrying him, Annabelle!” Diana Pearson said after staring at her dearest friend, Annabelle Windhill, as if she had lost her mind. 

“Well, that is a rather peculiar thing to say, but he is an earl, Diana,” Annabelle insisted, and Diana peeked from behind the curtain to look at the subject of their conversation, a portly middle-aged man who had just picked his teeth with his fingernails when he thought no one was watching him and was now inspecting them.

Her stomach turned when he wiped his hand on his waistcoat. If he could do that in a ballroom full of people, she shuddered to imagine what he did in private. He had asked her to dance earlier, and she was hiding from him in an alcove with Annabelle.

“I do not care if he is the Prince Regent himself. I cannot accept the suit of such a man, let alone marry him.” Diana followed that with an indignant huff. She was positively outraged by her friend’s suggestion.

“Earl or not, my heart is spoken for.”

“Are you referring to that man you have been writing letters to?” Annabelle asked in a whisper.

“…Perhaps,” Diana replied.

“You cannot love him when you do not even know his name or what he looks like.”

That was true, but Diana had been corresponding with him for two years. He was the most charming and intelligent man she had ever known, nothing like the pompous fops who asked her to dance or tried to catch her alone. Every time his letters arrived, she would lock herself in her bedchamber, heart leaping in anticipation, and break the sealing wax to read every word and commit it to memory.

“I know him, Annabelle.” Diana smiled dreamily. “And I know his name.”

“What is his name?” Annabelle folded her arms across her chest. Her questions today were rather forceful, and it puzzled Diana.

“James,” Diana answered.

“Are you certain it is his actual name?”

James was not the man’s actual name but Diana did not tell her friend that and instead nodded, for Annabelle would likely continue to ask questions she did not want to answer yet.

Annabelle shook her head, her straw-colored curls bouncing around her neck. “You have to abandon this fantasy, Diana. This is our second season and we must secure husbands.”

“I will not marry an old man.”

“Why ever not? You will be eternally young beside him.” Annabelle was quite fond of youth and beauty, and she often used pomades that promised to keep her face from freckling. Diana was unsure of their effectiveness, though. She dismissed that thought and returned to the subject of their conversation.

In James’ last letter, he had expressed his desire to see her, and Diana had begun to dream of meeting him and perhaps finding love with him. On her parents’ insistence, she attended balls and tolerated the company of gentlemen who could not hold her interest, but three nights ago, her father, Viscount Edgington, had summoned her to his study and spoken to her about marriage.

“You must find a husband before the end of this season or I will choose one for you,” he had told her the instant she sat.

“But, Father—”

“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking to you. You have wasted your first season and my money. I will not have you waste another. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Diana replied with her head bowed, and thus, desperation in her was born.

If she could meet James and have him court her and propose to her before the end of the season, then she would not have to worry about her father possibly choosing the earl she was hiding from for her. She had written back to James and told him that she wanted to meet him, as well, and had been waiting for his response now for almost a fortnight.

“Oh, Diana, I just remembered something I wanted to show you,” Annabelle’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“What is it?”

“I saw a painting by one Marguerite Gérard in one of the rooms here that I think you will like.” Annabelle’s green eyes sparkled.

Diana smiled. She was fond of paintings and admired the art wherever she found it, particularly landscapes. But a portrait from the French virtuoso was always something to behold. “A painting of Marguerite Gérard? Here? Why did you not tell me this before? I would have had a good reason to leave the ballroom before that senile earl asked me to dance.”

“Now you can flee, my dear friend,” Annabelle giggled. “My mother will not be pleased if she sees me leaving the ballroom. Go first and I will meet you once I am able to sneak out. The painting is in the last room in the hallway outside this ballroom.”

Peeking to ensure the earl was not in the path she needed to take to leave the ballroom, Diana stepped out from behind the curtain and moved toward the large double doors that led out of the room, keeping close to the walls. The earl was now dancing with a young dark-haired lady, and when they turned, Diana saw that she looked miserable, and she dearly commiserated with her.

The earl’s eyes met hers and she quickly looked away, then quickened her pace. Once she was out in the hallway, she gathered her skirts and hurried down the hall to the room that Annabelle mentioned. She closed the door behind her and looked around. There was no painting, only tall bookshelves covering the walls, and French doors that opened out to a terrace.

“Am I in the right room?” she asked herself as she moved further into the room to search for the piece. Perhaps it was a very small one.

The door opened and she turned immediately, expecting to see Annabelle. Her eyes instead found a handsome gentleman with blonde hair and dark eyes. She recalled seeing him dancing with other ladies in the ballroom earlier, and Annabelle had given her his name. Unfortunately, she could not remember the name now.

He smiled at her, taking several steps in her direction. “I did not think I would find anyone here. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” Diana replied cautiously. “My friend is supposed to show me a painting here.” She looked around again, uncertain. “Although I do not see anything of the sort. I might be in the wrong place.”

“There is no such thing as being in the wrong place.” He was standing before her now. “Though, I do believe I saw a painting here the last time I was in this room.”

“Could it have been moved?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perhaps, after all, it was only a small, framed portrait of some French artist.” He bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Crawford.”

Diana narrowed her eyes at his implication but curtsied politely. “I am Miss Diana Pearson.”

His brows rose as if he was surprised. “Are you Miss Annabelle Windhill’s friend?”

“Yes. Are you well acquainted with her?”

“Indeed, I am, and I presume you are waiting here for her.” His smile was pleasant, and Diana’s wariness began to vanish. He was acquainted with Annabelle, and he seemed to be an agreeable gentleman.

“I am.” She returned his smile.

He held out his arm. “Shall we search for the painting while we wait for her?”

Diana accepted his arm because she did not want to be impolite. They began to walk around the library, and when they reached the open French doors, he stopped and looked up at the full moon that illuminated the terrace, then back at her.

“Your eyes are as bright and lovely as the moon, Miss Pearson.” His dark eyes gleamed dangerously despite the softness in his voice, and he reached up to stroke her cheek.

Diana’s caution returned, and she quickly pulled her hand from his arm and took a step back.

“Do not be afraid, Miss Pearson,” he said, grasping her arms. “I only wish to show you the passion you have awakened in me.”

“I do not even know you!” She pushed against his chest to free herself but his hold on her was firm.

“Now you do, my dear.” He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, his fingers biting into her arms from the force with which he was holding her. Panic rose within her, and she began to kick his shin whilst pulling her face away. That did little because he cursed and started pushing her against a bookshelf, a few feet behind, likely to trap her. Diana struggled against his heavy breath, as he leaned closer, both arms still pinned against her shoulders.

The library door burst open and Annabelle walked in with several ladies. “Diana!” she shrieked when she saw her. “What are you doing?”

“I was not doing anything,” Diana quickly defended, tears brimming her eyes and blurring her vision. Baron Crawford released her at once, and darted out onto the terrace, away from sight, leaving her to suffer the consequences of being caught in a room alone with a man.

“That is not what we saw, Miss Pearson,” said a plump woman with disgust.

“Diana, how could you?” Annabelle asked, looking betrayed.

Diana could not understand why the women had followed Annabelle, and she did not have any time to think about it before their harsh accusations came, their voices filling her ears with words she never thought she would hear.

“You are ruined now!” someone exclaimed. “How shameful,” another rebuked.

Diana covered her face with her hands, stepping back until she felt a bookshelf bar her way. Her heart was beating violently in her chest, and her legs were weak.

“What is happening here?” came her father’s thunderous voice soon after.

“Your daughter has fallen, Lord Edgington,” someone answered.

Diana could not remove her hands from her face to look at him for fear of the condemnation she would see in his eyes. A moment later, a hand circled her arm and she was pulled forward. When she opened her eyes, she saw her father leading her out of the room, then out of the house altogether.

***

“You’ve ruined us! Why did you do it?” her father, Jacob, asked as he paced the drawing-room in their house in short quick steps an hour later, and her mother, Helen, was sobbing in a chair.

“I did not do anything,” Diana cried, “He was forcing himself on me. I rejected him.”

“Oh, did you?” Jacob stopped and gave her a cold stare. “Because that is not what I heard, Diana.”

“You will believe the words of others over your daughter’s?” she challenged, furiously wiping her tear-stained cheeks.

“Who is he?” her father demanded, ignoring her question. She hesitated because she did not know what her father would do if he got his name. “Who is he?” he demanded again with his voice raised.

“Baron Crawford,” she answered, trembling.

Her father cursed under his breath. “Did you know that he is betrothed?”

“No, I did not. I only made his acquaintance today.” She wrung her satin gloves in her hand.

“And you decided to seduce him just after meeting him?” Jacob accused, his face red with fury. Her mother sobbed harder.

“Why would you think that of me, Father?” She was unable to stop the tide of tears that besieged her eyes.

“Women often do vile things to snare men.” He was looking at her mother as he said that with the corners of his mouth turned down and his nose scrunched. He turned to Diana, and the tone of his voice chilled her bones. “You will leave for Kent tomorrow and stay with my sister, Margaret. And you will find a husband.”

Diana shook her head, her heart twisting painfully. “Please, do not send me away,” she implored, sinking from her chair to her knees. She barely knew her aunt, and her life in London was all she had ever known.

“No one in London will marry you now, and pray this scandal does not reach Kent.” Jacob did not wait for her to respond before he marched out of the room, his boots hammering against the parquet.

“I hope you are happy with the misfortune you have brought upon us,” her mother said at last, and Diana raised her head to look at her. The contempt she saw in her eyes should never appear in a mother’s eyes.

“Mother, please allow me to explain,” Diana begged.

“I will not hear any of your lies. You have disgraced us and made us regret birthing you.” Helen walked past her toward the door. Diana caught her skirt, but she slapped her hands away.

Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Never had she imagined something like this happening to her, and now she could be doomed to live the rest of her life as a disgraced spinster, unwanted even by her parents.

Diana had grown without her parents’ love because she should have been born male. Although she never expected them to comfort her during a time of misfortune, for they never did. she did not think they would ever send her away. Gathering herself and holding her sobs in until they turned into tiny hiccups, she rose from the floor and made her way out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.

The first thing she saw on her bureau when she closed the door was a letter. She picked it up, her throat tightening when she saw James’ handwriting, and she moved to sit on her bed to open it.

My dearest Dee,

I wish you could have seen the smile your response bestowed upon my face, and felt the happiness that filled my heart. I was once an aimless wanderer, but the honor of knowing you has given my soul something to strive for. Before I come to London to see you, I wish to give you my full name. I am Matthew James St. Wulfstan and the Marquess of Ashford.

I now truly believe that we share a bond that I cannot ignore any longer, and if you will allow me, I wish to court you and, perhaps, offer you my—

Diana’s tears blinded her and she was unable to finish reading the letter. A gentleman without a title would not court her after tonight’s events, much less a marquess. Matthew must never learn of the scandal, and she must never write to him again.

She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes as her heart broke anew. If she had left the library as soon as that loathsome Baron Crawford walked in, she would have prevented her misfortune, and her wish to have Matthew court her would have been granted. She saw nothing but desolation in her future now.

Chapter One

May 1814

Matthew stretched his neck and winced at the tightness he felt in the long scar that ran from the back of his left shoulder down to the middle where his ribs stopped. It was the result of a battle wound that had nearly changed the course of his existence.

“With this sort of stiffness you would think that I have been sitting for more than three hours,” he said to Glover, his valet of seven years. “I feel as though I am fifty years old instead of a mere thirty.”

Glover picked up the tea he had just poured for Matthew and came to set it down in front of him on his desk. “Would you like me to prepare more of the soothing oil for you, Your Grace?”

“I suppose that would be wise.” Matthew picked up the teacup and raised it to his lips. He had never been fond of mint tea until recently when he found himself in want of its calming properties.

“Might I suggest a short walk in the garden, Your Grace?” Glover picked up the letter that Matthew had just written.

“I still have much to do but I will consider it,” he replied. “Please post that for London immediately.”

“At once.” Glover bowed and left.

Matthew swiveled his chair to face the tall window behind his desk which overlooked an immaculate garden. Dee loved beautiful landscapes and gardens, and he had never failed to think of her every time he saw a garden. Now, he wondered if she was even alive.

She never replied to the letter he had sent her giving her his name, and he sent several more over the course of three months with no response. At the time, he assumed she no longer wished to correspond with him and complained to both Glover and his dear friend, Albert Kingsley for days, much to their dismay. But after eight months, he began to fear that something had happened to her.

His mood darkened from the hollowness her silence had created in his life, and his father’s deteriorating melancholy pushed him to purchase a commission and leave England to join Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. He was wounded in the Battle of Vitoria and was forced to retire from the military, but he did not return to England until he received news of his father’s death five months ago.

Matthew was now the Duke of Stormwood, and nothing in his life was as it should be because his dreams were lost. He thought he would find a letter from Dee upon his return but all he received were condolences and felicitations from vague acquaintances of his father’s past.

Gulping down the rest of his tea, he turned away from the window, his thoughts more tempestuous than before, and set the cup down before opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a stack of letters, loosened the twine binding them, removed a letter from the bottom—the last one Dee had sent him—and unfolded it.

My dear James,

I feel as though you have the power to perceive my thoughts from wherever you are, for I was thinking of seeing you moments before your letter arrived.

Yes, James, I would love to meet you one day. I wish to see the face that has only been shown to me in my dreams, behold the eyes of the friend I found under the most unlikely of circumstances and feel the satisfaction of finally completing a journey.

I love the pressed blue daisy you sent me, and I have placed it between the pages of my favorite book so that I may think of you every time I open it.

Now, regarding your suggestion to eat fish so I can learn to like it, there are not enough elephants in Africa to make me do it. My father eats kippers some mornings for breakfast, and I always smell them before I reach the morning room. No, James, I will never eat fish! I confess that I do enjoy this pleasant little debate we are having even though I am not fond of below-water delicacies. 

I eagerly await your response and your next preposterous suggestion, my dear friend.

Yours truly,

Dee.

 

Mathew placed the letter on his desk and started to reach for the one on top of the stack but stopped. I should not read anymore, he thought. It would only make matters more difficult. He grunted. Heedless of his advice, he picked up the letter, but then a knock came at his study door.

“Come in,” he called.

His butler, McGill, appeared. “You have a caller, Your Grace. It is the Baron Crawford.”

“Show him to the salon. I will join him shortly,” Matthew instructed, putting the letters away. It was time to conduct business, and not wallow in reveries of has-beens.

He stepped out of his study, taking note of the bustling around him as the servants made final preparations for tonight’s ball. He was hosting for the first time since his return on Albert and Glover’s suggestion to reacquaint with society and present himself as the Duke of Stormwood. Suggestion? More like coercion.

“Crawford,” he said as he walked into the salon.

Crawford rose, bowing and smiling. “Stormwood. The castle looks splendid. I have never understood why you do not host balls more often. It should be a regular occurrence. ”

“We shall see.” Matthew sat in a chair near the fireplace and Crawford retook his seat.

“I imagine you know why I am here, Stormwood,” Crawford said with creased brows. “The loss our business is suffering is most alarming.”

“Yes, I know,” Matthew sighed, “and I am investigating the reason for the loss.” His father had managed Stormwood’s properties very well and invested in several other ventures. Matthew had been tasked with the management of fabric trading, which Crawford had invested in, and he had neglected those duties before he left to join the campaign against Napoleon. Upon his return, he discovered unexplained losses that he was now inspecting.

Crawford scowled. “When do you expect to know the cause of our problems?”

“I cannot say,” Matthew said simply. He suspected that someone was embezzling but he was yet to know who. He did not tell Crawford for it could be anyone, and displaying his suspicions so openly may only encourage the perpetrator to slip away. “I will inform you the instant I learn something.”

Crawford grumbled. “I might be forced to withdraw my investment if this persists.”

Crawford was not Matthew’s friend, and their paths would hardly have crossed if they were not doing business together. However, he did not want him to withdraw his investment for he wanted to pay more attention to the businesses he had inherited. He wanted all of them to prosper. The letter he had sent Glover to post was for his solicitor in London, and it was about this business.

“Rest assured that you will not lose your fortune here, Crawford,” Matthew spoke calmly, his voice almost devoid of life. He used to be very passionate but one tended to lose passion upon an encounter with the horrors of war.

Crawford looked uncertain but he gave him a nod, then smiled as he rose. “I look forward to the ball, Stormwood, and I am happy you have decided to rejoin society.”

“As am I,” Matthew said impassively.

“I shall see you tonight.” Crawford bowed and left.

Matthew remained in his seat for a while before deciding to take that walk that Glover recommended.

Chapter Two

Diana was famished, not because she had no food, but because her aunt was preventing her from eating. They had to prepare for a ball at Kendall Castle, the home of the Duke of Stormwood, and her stays must be very tight for her to fit into a dress that had been made two sizes too small for her.

“It is not tight enough,” her aunt said, resting her hands on her wide hips and glaring at Diana. “Tighten it, Abigail,” she ordered the maid, and Diana’s stays were pulled tighter until she felt as though the air was being squeezed out of her lungs. She cursed inwardly. Tightly laced stays were not in fashion, but her aunt was imposing them upon her to punish her.

“Why must Diana go to the ball, Mother?” asked her cousin Florence Dervin, innocently, as she tried on a tiara in front of the tall mirror in the dressing room. “I doubt she even knows who the Duke of Stormwood is.” They were getting dressed in Florence’s chambers, and two maids were helping her while Abigail helped Diana.

“Her father thinks it would do her some good to rejoin society now that it appears everyone has forgotten about that horrid incident two years ago.” Margaret’s hawkish gaze moved over Diana. “And she has changed quite a bit.”

“If you mean I am now as skinny as a broomstick, then yes, I have changed,” Diana said.

“Oh, be quiet!” Margaret dismissed. “I would not keep you in this house if your father was not paying me well.”

Diana might not have been tossed out on her ear but her life had gotten considerably worse in the two years that followed the scandal. Her parents had refused to allow her to return to London, and her aunt ensured every minute of her day was spent in misery. She was given less food than she needed and was forced to stay in her bedchamber unless she was called upon.

Her father sent funds every month for her upkeep but her aunt spent most of it on herself and Florence, claiming it was hers to do with as she pleased.

Diana did not know if Matthew had written to her, and often wondered if he was affected by her sudden silence.

Her stomach rumbled as Abigail was helping her into a lavender dress. Their eyes met in the vanity mirror and Diana saw pity in Abigail’s eyes and quickly looked away. She only had to endure living in this house until she turned one and twenty in November.

Her late maternal uncle had been so generous as to bequeath to her a sum that she could claim once she turned twenty-one. She could leave this house then and find a small cottage far away from Kent and London in which to live the rest of her life. This was Diana’s dream now, and she believed it was fate’s kindness that made her uncle remember her before he died.

“This color suits you, Miss,” Abigail complimented after fastening the buttons on the back of her dress.

Diana regarded herself in the mirror and smiled. Margaret clothed her well because she was concerned about what people would think or say if they saw her shabbily dressed.

“I want that dress,” Florence declared with a glint in her eye, tossing her deep blue dress onto the floor. “I want Diana’s dress,” she repeated.

Margaret huffed. “Diana, give Florence your dress and wear hers.”

Diana opened her mouth to protest but quickly closed it when she thought of the possible consequences of protesting. The harsh words and hunger she might suffer were not worth the protest.

With her mouth turned down, Abigail helped Diana remove the dress, and then she surprised her when she brought Florence’s dress over to her. When no one was looking, she loosened Diana’s stays.

“Thank you,” Diana mouthed with a smile. Abigail was her only ally in the house, and she helped her whenever she could.

When Diana looked at herself in the mirror after her change of dress, she found she liked the blue velvet dress more than the lavender because it would help her hide at the ball. She did not want any attention, and she was only going because she wanted to be cordial with her aunt until she was able to leave the house. Margaret could easily tell her father lies that could get in the way of her freedom, and she did not want that to happen.

“I cannot breathe!” Florence complained.

“We do not have time for you to change over and over, Florence,” her aunt replied, seemingly annoyed. “You knew Diana’s dress was much smaller than yours when you asked to wear it.”

Secretly, Diana smiled, grateful her stays had been loosened as her new dress was very comfortable. Margaret hurried them out to the carriage once they were dressed, and they were soon on the hour-long ride to Kendall Castle. Diana said nothing on the way but Florence talked endlessly about how eager she was to be introduced to the duke, while her aunt hoped her daughter would meet anyone of significance to marry.

When they arrived, Diana felt her stomach tighten with trepidation. She had not been out in polite society for a very long time, and she was positively nervous. She stopped at the bottom of the marble steps that led up to the front door to collect herself, and when she looked up at the grand edifice before her, she felt intimidated, for Kendall Castle was one of the most beautiful castles she had ever seen.

What looked like a dozen stone fire bowls illuminated the Corinthian exterior and the perfectly tended lawn. Statues stood between the tall columns as if they had been charged to guard the place, and every window sparkled like a gemstone. Diana wished she could capture the view in a painting.

“Do come on!” her aunt urged from the top of the stairs, and Diana hurried up to meet her. At the door, Margaret said to the majordomo, “Baroness Dervin and Miss Florence Dervin.” Diana was not surprised to find her name left out. In fact, she was rather relieved. Hopefully, it would cause her to draw fewer stares when she finally entered. They joined a long line of guests in the long hall that led to the ballroom but were moving very slowly.

“I wish those at the fore of the line would hurry,” Florence huffed.

“Patience, my dear.” Margaret fanned herself slowly. “The duke will still be in the ballroom when we reach.”

Unlike everyone eager to enter the ballroom, Diana instead admired the arched ceiling from which three crystal chandeliers hung and the marble leaves that decorated the top of the columns lining the hall.

They entered the ballroom, at last, and an apprehensive feeling crept into her stomach. Her eyes flickered about the ballroom to ladies chattering behind flitting fans, and judgmental gazes came her way. And for a moment, she felt vulnerable again, like two years ago at the ball. Was the incident still fresh in everyone’s memories as it was in hers?

She pushed the feeling down as curiosity overcame her and her eyes fought to see beyond an amassed crowd at the center of the ballroom. A small gasp escaped her throat when a pair of hazel eyes met and held hers. The dark-haired man they belonged to was a short distance away from her, and was so handsome he could make a woman swoon. She presumed he was the duke because he was surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen who seemed ready to lie on the floor if he asked them to.

“Mother, is that the duke?” Diana heard Florence ask.

“Yes, my dear,” Margaret replied, “Duke Matthew St. Wulfstan.”

Diana froze, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. The man whose eyes were still upon her was Matthew, and he was now a duke. Suddenly breathless and afraid, she turned on her heels.

Releases on 21st August

Prologue

1814

London, England

“Your gentleman caller does not come around anymore, does he?”

Violet’s hand that held the pencil froze and hovered over the sketchbook. She had not wanted to listen to the conversation, as frustrated with her cousin’s interference as her sister was, but now, she had no choice. Dropping the sketchbook firmly into her lap, she sat straight and pushed the loose curls of blonde hair that had fallen out of her chignon back from her face.

Across the room, she could see who had spoken. Her cousin, Louise, was practically crowing in victory as she walked up and down the room.

“Mama was right. No good comes from encouraging the attentions of a man like Sir Percy Babington, does it?” Louise practically giggled with the words.

“I…” Penelope trailed off.

Violet’s eyes shot to her sister to see Penelope was sitting forward in her chair, barely paying attention to the embroidery in her lap.

“No, he does not come around anymore,” Penelope said miserably and stabbed the embroidered cloth with the needle another time.

“We knew he was no good. It shows a poor judgment of character, that is what my Mama says,” Louise crowed another time as she walked in front of Penelope.

I have had enough of this.

Violet stood to her feet and dropped her notebook so loudly on the table beside her that both Louise and Penelope flinched. Penelope’s fair curls turned in Violet’s direction and Louise spun around, her red hair whipping with the movement.

“We hear the opinions of your mother from her own lips, Louise. Do you have an opinion of your own to share?” Her tartness earned a warning glare from Penelope behind Louise’s back, clearly telling her to be quiet, but Violet did not listen. She strode across the room instead, meeting Louise’s gaze.

Violet may have been significantly shorter than Louise, but she would never cower to her cousin’s pride.

Louise’s lips opened and closed, but no words passed them. Clearly, she had not expected such words to escape Violet.

“No? Well, perhaps we should leave my sister to her embroidery. She is content here in peace, and that peace and quiet is rather being disturbed at present. If you wouldn’t mind.” Violet spoke with a sweet and kindly tone, even if the words were to the point.

Louise was wrongfooted. She narrowed her brown eyes, clearly wishing to be tart too, but apparently, words failed her. She hurried from the room instead, and Violet followed, being careful to close the door behind her. Once Louise was gone, Violet turned back into the parlor and sighed, leaning on the door.

“Oh, good lord! Save me from our cousin’s proud ways,” she gushed, rather relieved when she brought a smile to her sister’s lips.

“You think we would be used to it by now after how long we have been here,” Penelope murmured, looking down at her embroidery once again.

“Used to it? No, indeed. Our cousin is as changeable as the English weather. Sometimes she is kind, other times, like the clouds, she is so ill-tempered that she marches around the house, practically making the floorboards shake beneath her feet.”

“Do not let her hear you say that!” Penelope shook her head madly.

“She can hear it. I do not mind.” Violet crossed the room and sat down by her sister’s side, flopping into the chair. She had hoped her jest would bring another smile to her sister’s lips, but it didn’t on this occasion. “Penelope, are you well, dearest?”

“Of course,” Penelope lied.

“You know I can tell easily by now when you are fibbing to me, do you not?” Violet leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially, as if it were the greatest secret ever told. “You are my sister, Penelope. I can read you like a book.”

“Do not tease me, Violet.”

“I am not teasing. I am trying to make you smile, though I admit I am failing in my task at present.” Violet sat back again. “You have a habit of flattening your lips together when you lie.” Penelope purposefully lifted her head and smiled as if to dispel the illusion of a lie. “It is a good attempt, but you still lied. Would you tell me what is wrong, sister?”

She half-expected Penelope to start speaking at length of Sir Babington, the gentleman caller who had spent months trying to earn Penelope’s attention, and when he had it, had frittered off very quickly. Like a bumble bee that persists with one flower, Violet thought Sir Babington just the same. He had waited until Penelope had turned her head toward him, then he had flown away.

“I…” Yet Penelope was not one for indulging in long speeches of what was in her heart. Violet usually had to tease it out of her.

“You can tell me anything. You know that, dearest.” Violet reached for her sister and took her hand off the embroidery, clasping her fingers in her own.

“I know.” Penelope lifted her head, revealing there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh, what is wrong? Is it Sir –”

“Please, do not say his name. It is something quite different that upsets me.”

“Pen, what is it?”

“I feel… Oh, it is all the time at the moment.” Penelope flung back her head dramatically. When she accidentally pricked herself with the needle, she cried out and lifted her finger to her lips, sucking on the blood. “Every morning,” she murmured once she lowered her hand again, “and this morning, it is far worse.”

“What is worse?” Violet leaned forward, feeling her worry begin to burn within her. “Goodness, what is wrong?”

“I feel so sick. All the time.” Penelope’s words were barely audible, they were so quiet. “Every day, it is like this gnawing sensation in my gut.” She gently placed down the embroidery beside her and rested a hand on her stomach. Her other hand was now clutching at Violet’s, as if it was the giver of life itself. “Violet… I fear…”

“Fear what?” Violet did not get an answer to her question, for Penelope had lifted both hands to her lips. There was an awful sound within her throat, one that forewarned what was about to happen.

Violet was on her feet within a second. There was no chance they could make it to a privy or a chamber pot in time. Instead, she dragged poor Penelope to the garden door and flung it open.

Beyond the door, late-blooming irises and poppies swayed in the breeze. Penelope pushed them all to the side and bent her head down as she began to retch in the grass.

Violet kicked the door shut behind them, not wanting Louise or anyone else in the house to discover what was happening just yet. Not until she knew the cause of this sickness.

Bending down to her knees, Violet held her sister’s hair and rubbed her back whilst she was sick, taking care of her.

“There, there. Let it out, Pen. All will be well again in a minute.” Violet made her tone soft. When Penelope finished and sat back, wrinkling her nose when she caught sight of what she had done, she offered a small smile to Violet.

“That is what our mother used to say. ‘All will be well again,’ she said that so much.”

“That she did.” Violet wouldn’t let herself grow sad at the mention of their mother. At this moment, she had other things to worry about.

Must I call a physician? Is this some passing sickness, or a bad filet of fish that has been ingested, or something else entirely?

“Penelope, we should take you upstairs so you can rest. As mother said, all will be well.”

“No, Violet, no, not this time.” Penelope’s words were rather wild. For one who was usually so quiet and softly spoken, it was starkly against her character. She pulled on Violet’s hands, not letting her leave just yet, and tugged her back down to her knees. She entwined their fingers together, latching onto Violet. “I fear I know what the cause of this sickness is, and it will not pass, not before everything becomes apparent.”

“Before what becomes apparent?” Violet asked. Penelope didn’t answer at first. The tears returned to her eyes, and she began to cry. The tears spilled quickly down her cheeks, running so fast that the drips hung off her chin. “Penelope, you are scaring me. Pray, tell me more before I go mad with worry.”

“I know what the sickness is.” Penelope spoke so quietly now that Violet had to lean forward to hear her. “It is not food poisoning, nor is it an illness that can be healed. Violet, it is of my own doing. Of mine and Sir Babington’s.”

Violet felt her body turn cold as she sat back on her knees. She prepared herself to hear the words, even before Penelope could utter them.

“Violet, I am with child.”

Chapter One

Benedict, when I find you…

Sebastian’s thoughts trailed off. As the sun shone down heavily, making his palms clammy around his steed’s reins and his back hot beneath his tailcoat, he rode on. He drove the horse forward with a kind of wildness to him, picturing himself as feral as the animal beneath him, with hair loosened by wind and skin buffeted red.

When Sebastian reached Hyde Park, he didn’t bother turning the horse in through the open gate. He vaulted the fence instead. The horse managed it easily and passersby squealed, either with delight at how impressive such a feat was, or the shock of the horse traveling so fast.

Sebastian couldn’t stop a small smile creeping into his face. He rather liked the idea of ladies giving him a wide berth, and the fans that fluttered across their faces now and the gloved hands that were lifted to lips in shock thrilled him.

Yes, stay away from me! It is for your own good.

When he reached the main path of Hyde Park, Sebastian had to slow down. There were far too many people to ride safely. The steed came to a steady trot, snuffling and snorting in his reins, frustrated at going so slow.

“I know, boy, I know,” Sebastian said deeply, comforting the steed as he patted his neck with a strong hand. “I’d rather be somewhere wilder too.” The horse had kept him company on his travels abroad to the continent. Like him, the steed seemed to suffer the confinement of London society and the ton too much. “To be back in the wilderness of Spain again, eh?” The horse snorted, as if agreeing with him.

“Your Grace Ashbury! Is that you?” a familiar voice cried.

Sebastian was forced to pull on the reins and put on a polite smile, turning to greet whoever had called to him. A rather rotund fellow with pudgy red cheeks that gleamed in the sunlight. The man was rather a dandy, with so many bows on his shoes that they had to appeal as much to the ladies as they did to him.

“Lord Melbury.” Sebastian bowed his head from atop the horse, greeting the man that had once been a close friend to his father.

“Well, well, I did not know we would have the pleasure of your company out here today,” Lord Melbury declared and walked toward Sebastian’s side, swinging the swagger stick in his hand in emphasis of each word.

“Nor did I,” Sebastian muttered before he lifted his voice louder. “I was supposed to be engaged with my brother today. It is the season for the hunt after all.”

“Ah, I see by your face that your brother has not turned up. I do believe young Lord Westmond is on a rather different hunt today, and not one that includes searching for foxes.” Lord Melbury was clearly thrilled by his own jest, chuckling away and turning his red cheeks a deeper shade of scarlet. He lifted his swagger stick and pointed through Hyde Park.

Sebastian gritted his teeth as he looked forward. Late-blooming flower heads swayed from side to side, dancing in his view, and the early turning autumnal leaves of horse chestnuts got in Sebastian’s way. He squinted through the blur where he eventually found his brother.

There you are.

Benedict was standing by the lake in Hyde Park, with no less than two ladies on either side of him, and a cluster of other ladies hovering close by. Each one was fluttering their fan and fussing with the necklines of their gowns.

Sebastian sent a pleading look to the heavens.

Surely, he cannot fall for such tricks.

Yet Benedict was smiling kindly down at the two ladies on either side of him, his eyes rather wide, like a child promised the taste of hot chocolate for the first time.

“He seems rather content, if you ask me,” Lord Melbury added with another laugh.

I didn’t ask.

“If you would excuse me, Lord Melbury.” Sebastian bowed his head another time from atop the horse and moved on quickly, keeping his rather rude thoughts to himself. He crossed the distance to his brother in seconds, pulling the horse to such a halt at the side of the lake that it whinnied loudly into the air and drew the attention of many.

The cluster of ladies nearby all turned their heads toward Sebastian. The fluttering of fans grew faster, and some primped their cheeks and pressed their lips together, bringing more color to them.

Save me from scheming ladies looking for a husband!

“Sebastian! Is that you?” Benedict cried good-naturedly.

“It shouldn’t be me. I should be miles away from here on a fox hunt right about now. As should you.” Sebastian didn’t get down from the horse at first. He fixed a knowing glare on his brother, watching as Benedict offered an apologetic smile.

“I am sorry, brother, I rather got a little… waylaid.”

“So I see.” Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the two ladies beside Benedict. They were both unashamed in their attention to Benedict. One had her arm through his and her gloved fingers were practically clinging to him. The other had adjusted the neckline of her gown so much that Sebastian was forced to lift his eyes elsewhere. “I apologize for interrupting, ladies, but I am in need of the company of my brother.”

“Oh! But we were so enjoying Lord Westmond’s company,” the first lady cried from where she stood on Benedict’s arm.

“This is Lady Hayes and Lady Bella, Seb,” Benedict said hurriedly.

“A pleasure, your Grace.” The young lady, Lady Bella, turned her attention on Sebastian and curtsied so far that she was in danger of tripping over. Sebastian chewed the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

I must get them away from Benedict! He does not know the danger he is in.

“Careful, Lady Bella. The ground is uneven here and you are likely to trip.” He cast a glance down to the earth beneath them. At once, Lady Bella looked down and nearly wrongfooted herself entirely as she stood straight.

Sebastian jumped down off his horse and tied the steed’s reins to the nearest branch of a tree before looking back to Benedict. The fool was now offering his other arm to Lady Bella, to stop her from falling over.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sebastian muttered to himself, so quietly that the group seemed none the wiser to the fact he had spoken at all.

“The ladies were in need of a drink, Seb,” Benedict declared, lifting his gaze from the women at last. His deep brown eyes that were so like Sebastian’s own were rather moony as they stared at Lady Bella. “There is a teahouse not far from here.”

“Ah, and how do the ladies like their tea?” Sebastian asked as he crossed toward them. If he was going to protect his brother from their advances, then it was high time he was more forthright, even if it became rude.

I do not care what anyone thinks of me, after all.

“Do they take tea only with marquesses and nothing less?” His words clearly hit the mark. As the Marquess of Westmond, his brother was one of the most eligible bachelors of the season.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Hayes said hurriedly as her sister blushed bright red.

“It is not the tea they want, but the company, Benedict.” Sebastian stepped near his brother, practically putting himself between him and Lady Hayes. At once, she was forced to release Benedict and step back.

“Seb, I –” Benedict’s tone was pleading, but Sebastian spoke over him.

“I imagine their thirst suddenly came upon them when they saw you. What do you say, Lady Bella? Am I wrong?” His question hit the mark for she stepped back too, also releasing Benedict.

“Come, Bella,” Lady Hayes said, striding forward and reaching for her sister’s arm. “It seems the Duke of Ashbury does not want our company today.” Lady Hayes towed Lady Bella away, though the latter kept looking back to Benedict as she went, offering a sweet smile and a wave that seemed to linger.

Once they were gone, wandering around the lake with other ladies, Sebastian heard his brother sigh beside him.

“Seb, I swear, I do not understand you.”

Sebastian smiled a little at these words and turned back to face his brother. Benedict’s fair hair was a contrast to his own, not just in color, but in style. Unlike Sebastian’s that was wild from the ride, Benedict’s was well-coiffed. It went with the pristine nature of his tailcoat and waistcoat. He was even well shaven, and he scratched at his chin now, shaking his head.

“Am I an enigma? Ha! If only, what a man would give to be anything half so interesting as a mystery.” Sebastian laughed and walked around his brother before taking hold of Benedict’s shoulder and steering him to look at the ladies that had just left. “Those ladies are not for you, Benedict.”

“You are becoming worse than a belligerent mother of a young lady of the ton,” Benedict said wryly, earning a deep chuckle from Sebastian.

“I suppose I am, but with good cause.”

“What good cause is that?” Benedict asked, laughing. Despite his laughter, he still waved after the ladies, and his eyes seemed rather dazed as he watched them. “They were perfectly pleasant, they had charm, and were very handsome. Pray tell me why I could not enjoy their company?”

“Do you want the detail or the quick version?”

“The quick version, please, or we’ll be here all day and your horse will be most upset at the wait.” They both shot a glance toward the steed that was already pawing at the ground with his hooves, unhappy to be still so long.

“Come. If he sees us walking away, he will calm down. As we walk, I will give you the quick version of this lecture that you wanted,” Sebastian said and steered his brother away, aware that Benedict drove the fine heels of his hessian boots into the ground, trying to stall their progress.

“I don’t remember asking for a lecture, as such…”

“Then indulge me, for I am your brother.” Sebastian encouraged Benedict to walk the other way around the lake. With late summer turning to autumn, more and more trees above them were turning brown and orange, but their leaves hadn’t fallen just yet. Sebastian ran a hand through these leaves, snapping off a few of them before offering them to his brother.

“This is an odd gift,” Benedict murmured.

“This is how the ladies of the ton see you, brother. They see you as something that is easy to pluck.”

“Oi!”

“Hear me out,” Sebastian pleaded. “You are young, a marquess, wealthy, with your own estate –”

“As much as I enjoy your compliments, is there a point to this?” Benedict asked with one raised eyebrow.

“There is.” Sebastian paused in their walk and held his brother’s gaze. “Many ladies seek your company for one reason only. They see you as a viable husband.”

“What a shame!” Benedict said with thick sarcasm. “Was it not you who encouraged me to marry? I know I am the one who wants to marry, but you seem to have alighted on the idea with keenness. Why should the lady I wish to spend my life with, bother you so?”

“Yes, I am very eager for you to be wed and to see you happy.”

“And you? Will you wed?”

“We have been over this before.” Sebastian turned his back and continued his walk. He was not in the mood to have that particular conversation today, so he had to bring it to an end quickly. “I have no cause to marry. You should though. I think it will add to your happiness greatly.”

“If that is the way you feel, then why do you scare away every young lady that comes near me? Good lord, Sebastian, you’re better than a bulldog for a guard.”

“Am I?” Sebastian stood taller and adjusted the tailcoat on his shoulders.

“That was not a compliment!”

“I choose to take it as such,” Sebastian said with a smile, prompting his brother to shake his head again. “Now, listen, you know I want what is best for you.”

“You’ve said it a thousand times, though I do not always understand your ways.”

“Then hear me out a little more.” Sebastian took his brother’s shoulder once again and urged him to stop. The two came to a halt in the long reeds that surrounded the lake. As they swayed in the breeze, their leaves practically hissing beside them, Sebastian pointed through the reeds and across the lake, toward where the ladies were walking. “You are young, and not yet experienced with ladies.”

“How can I be if you frighten them all away?”

“By learning from my knowledge.” Sebastian gestured to the ladies another time. “Lady Bella was so keen to get your attention that the neckline of her gown was never fixed, and Lady Hayes was most reluctant to release your arm at all, was she not?”

“And?”

“And? You do not see a problem with these things? Ha! Benedict, you are naïve. Any lady who is truly interested in you will not resort to tricks.” Sebastian held his brother’s gaze as his voice became solemn. “They will get to know you first, not your title, before they decide they like you. As much as I want you to marry, I want it to be the right woman. Marry the wrong one and it could be a life of misery. What kind of brother would I be if I allowed you to do that?”

Sebastian urged his brother on again. They walked around the lake, coming dangerously close to Lady Hayes and her sister.

“I suppose you are right.” Benedict sighed with the words. “Though I still do not know how you can judge a lady as being artful and cunning with just one glance.”

“One glance is sometimes all that is needed –” Before Sebastian could say anymore, a cry went up from the lake’s riverside.

“What was that?” Benedict was already hurrying forward, before Sebastian could stop him.

Sebastian followed behind, though at a much slower pace. He could see Lady Hayes up ahead had tripped on the reeds and was now prostrate on the ground, but at a rather unnatural angle. Her gown seemed to be adjusted just so to flatter her, and the hem of her skirt was lifted a little.

“Subtle, indeed,” Sebastian murmured wryly, watching as Benedict caught up with the lady.

“Lady Hayes, goodness, are you injured?” Forever the gentlemen, Benedict took off his top hat and bent down to his knees, offering his hand to Lady Hayes. Beside them, Lady Bella stood, waving a hand in front of her face as if she might swoon from the shock of it all.

This is as good as being at the theater!

Sebastian worked hard to hide his smile as he reached their side.

“I fear my sister is greatly injured, Lord Westmond,” Lady Bella said with drama in her tone.

“As do I,” Lady Hayes spoke quickly. “It is my ankle, my lord. It is in need of attention.” When she lifted her leg a little too easily, urging Benedict to check for an injury, Sebastian hid his laugh behind a cough. He earned merely a glare from Benedict, who knew that it really was a laugh, though the ladies didn’t seem to notice.

“Then we must get you to a physician, my lady.”

What!?

Benedict’s declaration left Sebastian shaking his head, fearing that his brother’s rather young and naïve ways would always make him a target of a pretty lady. One smile and he was enamored. Sometimes, Sebastian had to save his brother from himself.

“Good lord, what is that?” Sebastian said and stepped forward, pointing down at Lady Hayes.

“What?” she asked.

“Ah, I see what it is. A spider. It has just crawled under the hem of your dress, my lady.”

“Ahh!” She jumped to her feet, so remarkably quickly that Sebastian had to turn away to hide his laughter. Benedict caught up with him and pulled on his tailcoat.

“Seb! That was not funny.”

“I think it was remarkably amusing. Look at poor Lady Hayes now, her ankle seems to have miraculously recovered, does it not?” Sebastian gestured back to the lady who was hopping up and down on both feet, terrified that a spider might be under her gown. “See?”

“Ah…” Benedict acknowledged it all with a nod. “I trust you are recovered, my lady?” His words made Lady Hayes freeze with her sister at her side, both attempting innocent looks that no longer worked.

“I am pleased to see your recovery was so fast. If you would excuse us.” Sebastian bowed his head and took his brother’s shoulder, steering him away once again. “How I wish you had come fox hunting, Benedict. As amusing as this all is, I could have done without it.”

“You are better than any chaperone, I’ll give you that, Seb. In fact, I hope you will continue with your duties tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening? What is happening then?”

“A ball, at Lord Melbury’s house.”

“A ball!?” Sebastian scoffed. “You know I am not a fan of them –”

“Yes, I know. Who would go to a ball when the enjoyment of riding their horse wildly is to be had? Did you knock people over on your way here like skittles? The way you ride, I would not be surprised,” Benedict added wryly.

“They jumped out of the way, for the most part,” Sebastian continued the jest, much to his brother’s delight.

“Say you will come tomorrow night, please.”

“To a ball?”

“Please. Besides, without you to watch over me, I might just fall for the charms of a pretty woman who is out to marry my title.” Benedict’s astute words had Sebastian falling still and offering a glare.

“You have played me.”

“It has worked though, has it not? Say you will come, brother?”

Do I have a choice?

Chapter Two

“Can Mary spare the time?”

“I am afraid not,” Violet said as she stood behind Penelope and gathered her hair together. “It seems the one maid we have has been forced to join the many others that are already attending to our cousin.” Violet turned her gaze on Penelope in the vanity mirror above the table where she sat, seeing the nervous way that Penelope chewed her lip. “Have no fear, I’ll do a good job.”

“I do not doubt it,” Penelope said, though her voice lacked enthusiasm. Violet knew how much her sister longed for the assistance of the one maid they had at times.

In the quiet room, Violet began to pin Penelope’s hair, preparing her for the ball. She took extra care tonight, placing pearls attached to pins into the curls at the rear of her sister’s head, to ensure attention would be drawn to the fairness of Penelope’s hair.

“Quite beautiful,” Violet said after she stood back and surveyed her work.

“Thank you, but I fear I –” Penelope broke off as she held a hand to her mouth, making that sound that was now so familiar to Violet.

Casting a worried glance toward the door, Violet reached beneath her bed and fetched an empty copper chamber pot, before bringing it to Penelope and placing it on her lap.

“Th-thank you.” Penelope stammered, clearly trying to hold in her sickness as she bent over the chamber pot.

“Well, if I have to grab your curls and hold your hair back again, I’ll ruin all my good work,” Violet said softly as she dropped down to her knees in front of her sister. To her delight, she saw her jest pleased her sister, and a small smile appeared, even if it only lasted for a few seconds. “There, how are you feeling now?”

“A little better.” Penelope still stayed bent over the bowl though, clearly reluctant to leave it just yet. “It’s not getting any better, is it?”

Violet held her sister’s gaze, wishing with everything she had that she could say it was.

Yet it is not.

It had been a challenge indeed these last couple of weeks to hide Penelope’s state. The sickness had at first been played off as a passing illness, but now they were forced to hide it, out of fear that if her uncle or aunt, or Louise, saw Penelope was sick so much, they might call a physician.

He could know exactly what causes Pen’s sickness. What then if he were to tell our uncle and aunt?

Violet slowly stood to her feet and walked around Penelope as she placed down the chamber pot, apparently done for the moment with her sickness.

“What am I going to do, Violet?” Penelope broke the silence in the room.

They looked at one another in the vanity mirror. Penelope sat down on the stool and Violet stood behind her, with her hands gently resting on her sister’s shoulders.

“What will happen to me?” Penelope whispered.

“Have no fear.” Violet forced a smile into her cheeks. “I promised I would think of something, did I not?”

“Are you able to think of miracles?” Penelope asked with a laugh, though there was no real humor in it.

“Perhaps I am,” Violet said with false pride, then laughed at herself. “Trust me, Pen, that is all I ask, all is not lost yet. Have we not hidden your secret well so far?”

“By the grace of God, luck, and our maid.” Penelope gestured to the door, beyond which in another part of the house, Mary was now helping to care for Louise. Violet nodded, knowing how fortunate they were to have Mary’s help. She had hidden Penelope’s sheets on more than one occasion and washed them herself, to stop anyone from discovering that Penelope no longer bled.

“Well, in these situations, most women marry,” Violet uttered the words she had been afraid of saying.

“Marry? Me!?” Penelope spluttered. She stood to her feet and turned to face Violet. “I cannot marry.”

“All I am saying is that it would be a way to hide the pregnancy.”

“Yes, so it would. Yet I cannot marry. Not now. After I was so fooled by one man, I thought he genuinely…” She broke off, as tears appeared in her eyes.

“I know, I know,” Violet cooed softly and stepped forward, taking her sister in her arms and embracing her tightly. “I know what he made you think. We were all mistaken about him. We all thought he cared for you.”

Deep down, Violet seethed with anger, though she hid it for her sister’s sake. Sir Babington had a lot to answer for. He persuaded Penelope to believe she was in love, and that he loved her too, all so he could have one night with her, then he left, without another word.

He has done this to her.

“The mere thought of marrying frightens me, Violet, I cannot do it,” Penelope said miserably as she stepped back again, her eyes red with the effort of trying to quell those tears. “I cannot stand up in a church and vow to love another man forever. How could I?” She laid her hands on her stomach.

There was no swell there yet, but there was a child growing inside her. The thought of what that child was going to be born into made Violet’s heart thud harder and that anger swell again.

For Penelope, and for that child… I must do something!

Penelope lifted a hand to her lips. Clearly, in danger of being sick, Violet reached for the chamber pot, the copper cold to the touch, and thrust it into her sister’s hands. Penelope took hold of it and bent forward, but nothing came.

“Oh, Pen, perhaps you shouldn’t come to the ball.”

“I must! Or our aunt will know something is amiss, will she not? I have already missed three events these last two weeks.”

“I know, I know.” Violet sighed and turned away, her mind thinking quickly.

Penelope is right. She cannot miss any more events.

Yet it was only a matter of time before Penelope’s pregnancy started to show. At first, they could play it off as weight gain, but no one would be fooled for very long.

Think of something, you fool! Have you not promised to protect Penelope from all evils of this world? I failed to protect her from Sir Babington. I will not fail again!

“I’ll need a new gown, Violet.” Penelope’s words made Violet look up to see her sister had at last been sick, but some of it had caught on the gown.

“Oh, sister, do not worry. I’ll call for Mary and she’ll help us to get you changed speedily. Here, sit down, rest.” Violet took her sister’s arms and steered her to the nearest chair. “I’ll be back in two minutes.” She bent down and kissed her sister’s forehead before she parted. She heard Penelope whimper at that touch, as if she wanted Violet there longer, before she left.

Closing the door softly behind her, Violet wandered into the corridor, wringing her hands together. It was an old nervous action of hers, clenching and releasing her hands, rather like a cat with long claws.

She was on her way to Louise’s room to ask for Mary’s assistance when she caught sight of another chamber door that was open. It was to her aunt’s chamber, beyond which her aunt was striding back and forth, ready for the ball.

“Oh, oh, listen to this, Mavis,” she cried to the lady’s maid that hurried on behind her.

Well, at least a maid can be spared for someone else other than Louise. Rather a surprise.

Violet kept her thoughts to herself. Louise was the cherished daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Notley, and all their attention and money usually went to her.

Violet stepped back into the shadows of the corridor and peered around the edge of the doorframe, watching as her Aunt Deborah fluttered around the room with a scandal sheet in her hands. The lady’s maid hurried behind her, trying to proffer forward a necklace.

“It talks of the Marquess of Westmond,” Deborah said with a manic wave of her hand. She waved the scandal sheet so hard in the air, it was almost like a lady’s fan, fluttering at her cheeks. “The Marquess, though the younger brother of the Duke of Ashbury, is certainly the much talked of gentlemen of the season. With enough money to his own name and a vast country estate, he has caught more than one lady’s eye.’”

“Mrs. Notley, your necklace.” Mavis tried to offer the necklace another time, but Deborah was so caught up in her own words, she didn’t even seem to notice. Her pudgy hand lifted the scandal sheet another time as she continued to read.

“Whereas the Duke has earned a reputation for travel and can be seen in the corners of balls and assemblies, plainly eager to not be present, his brother is another man entirely. So many dances he has shared with young ladies this season that it is plain to observe his eye could be won by any lady discerning enough to have him. Will the Marquess of Westmond find a bride this season? This writer is sure to write of the gossip when she hears more.’”

Deborah ended her speech by closing up the scandal sheet. “Oh, Mavis, what a thing that could be for the girls.”

“The girls?” Mavis said in surprise, lowering the necklace on her palm.

“Oh, think faster, Mavis. You must realize I am thinking of one of the girls catching his eye. There are three young ladies under this roof that we must see wed.” Deborah crossed the room and threw the scandal sheet down on her dressing table before turning back to take the necklace from her maid.

Violet slowly crept closer to the door, to better listen to her aunt.

“Lord knows it will not be an easy task,” Deborah declared with a grimace. “My Louise is a beauty and has already charmed many a gentleman. Penelope may be a little plainer, but she has demureness I suppose. That will work in her favor. As for Violet, oh! My sister left me with a challenge when she bestowed Violet into my care.”

The words made Violet flinch and reach for the wall beside her. She planted a palm to the plaster, hating the way Deborah spoke.

It was hardly my mother’s choice to pass away, was it?

“That girl can speak without thinking. Heaven knows what some gentlemen think of her.”

“Yet she is a beauty, is she not, Mrs. Notley?” Mavis’ words were clearly unwelcome, for Deborah snatched a ring out of her maid’s hand and made her scurry back.

“I suppose she has a certain charm,” Deborah added reluctantly. “Yet the girls must marry. How can I not think of this Marquess of Westmond? So wealthy, so desired, and respected. Oh, imagine if he caught the eye of young Louise? What a happy thing that would be!” Deborah clapped her hands together in delight, making the extra fat on her arms jiggle.

Violet stepped back away from the door, creeping away on her tiptoes, yet she listened on, reluctant to disappear completely.

“Hear what else it has to say, Mavis.”

“What of your bracelet, Mrs –”

“Shh!” Deborah said firmly and returned to her scandal sheet. “Whichever lady turns her eye on the Marquess of Westmond might be in for a greater challenge than they thought. Allow me to warn any young lady readers out there, for though the Marquess can clearly be charmed by his smile, the older brother does not look so easy to charm. The Duke of Ashbury may have only recently returned from his travels, but he seems reluctant to let his younger brother dance with every lady at a ball.’ How troublesome,” Deborah continued on. “Well, with Louise’s charms, we must hope she can slip by this Duke.”

Violet crept away. Walking on the tiptoes of her shoes, she moved onto Louise’s room, though she paused outside of the door, not quite knocking, for she was deep in thought.

The Marquess of Westmond…

Here was an interesting prospect. Here was a man that was wealthy and had a country estate. It could be the perfect way to hide Penelope away from the worrisome gossip of the ton. With money to their names, Penelope would be well taken care of. Who would care then if she had a child? The rumors would struggle to travel far from the country, and they would have the fortune to care for the child.

“They could be happy,” Violet murmured to herself under her breath. “Penelope and the child… they could be happy.” She lowered her hand from where she had raised it to knock on the door and crossed to the nearest mirror on the landing.

Framed in gold with a beveled edge, the mirror reflected back her image. Violet fussed at her reflection a little. She brushed back the loose golden locks from her updo that framed her face, peering at the green eyes that stared back at her. She had never thought of herself as particularly pretty, rather plain in comparison to her sister, yet Mavis had described her as a beauty.

Violet had always found her green eyes were rather too large on her face, and her lips were far too plump. They were nothing like Penelope’s that were slim and had this habit of curling into an elegant smile.

Could it be possible for me to catch a gentleman’s eye?

She adjusted her Pomona green gown, so bold in color that it matched her eyes, then she tweaked a few of the golden gems in her hair. Once content with her appearance, she stepped back.

“This could work,” Violet muttered to herself. So caught up in her thoughts, she neglected to knock and call for Mary after all. She shot back across the corridor, hastening to her room, and bustled through the door.

She moved so fast that Penelope jumped on the other side, nearly dropping the chamber pot she had balanced in her lap.

“Let me guess, Louise cannot afford to spare Mary?” Penelope asked with a wry smile. “You would think two maids were enough for her without taking the one we shared.”

“Pen, Pen!” Violet said enthusiastically, hurrying forward, “I have had an idea.”

“You certainly seem excited by it.”

“I am. Nervous too, but oh, determined as well.” Violet grabbed the nearest chair and pulled it forward, sitting down in front of her sister and taking her hand.

“Do not come too close, Violet, I don’t want to ruin your gown too.”

“Tush, if it happens again, I will hold back your hair for you. Now, listen to me.” Violet leaned forward. “To take care of you, we need money and a house. To get either of those things, we need a husband.”

“Violet, I told you. I cannot marry. Besides, how am I supposed to convince a gentleman to marry me in such a short space of time?”

“No, Pen, I do not mean you. I mean that I shall marry. If I could catch the eye of a gentleman and persuade him to accept my hand, well, you would be safe. Is it not a wonderful idea?”

“Wonderful? My thought was reaching for impossible!”

“Pen!” Violet sat back, affronted.

“No, I didn’t mean why would any man want to marry you. I meant how will you get a man to marry you so fast.”

“Well, I suppose I will have to make a plan.” Violet moved to her feet and clasped her hands together. “Here is what we shall do.”

Be sure to read the rest when this book releases on 19th July!

Chapter One

Erdington Estate

March 1814

“Oh, let’s not walk in the south gardens today, Rose. I can’t bear the view of the house at the moment,” Harriet protested.

She and Rose had just stepped out of Erdington Manor house onto broad, mossy paving. Erdington was Harriet’s childhood home. Rose had been her close friend since the two met at finishing school. That had been before the death of Harriet’s father and the entailment of Erdington to the closest male heir. The heir being Harriet’s distant cousin, Simon.

The terrace that they walked across led to wide, stone steps, flanked by carved balustrades leading down to the famous gardens. The once-famous gardens. To go with the once-famous house. But time had not been kind to either the Erdington estate or its masters.

“Nonsense, Harry. I love walking in the rose garden. The scent is incredible at this time of year,” Rose enthused.

“But the house looks so woebegone with all that scaffolding around it,” Harriet said.

“Then don’t look at it,” Rose shrugged.

She set off across the patio towards the steps. The two young women were night and day apart. Harriet was petite and fair-haired with full cheeks that flushed at a moment’s notice. Rose had straight dark hair cascading down her back and dark eyes in a pale, pretty face.

“I didn’t come all the way from Tedbury to sit indoors, Harry,” Rose said over her shoulder as she skipped down the steps.

Harriet grumbled but caught up with the other woman, leading the way down into the gardens. They were not the works of art they had once been, a century before when the manor had been in the hands of her great-grandfather. The rose beds were still spectacular, with the plants flowering in profusion and reaching across the gravel paths which were supposed to separate different beds. Statues of famous Worthinghams were splotched with mildew and becoming gradually entwined with ivy.

“Take a deep breath. Isn’t that wonderful?” Rose said.

“It is. I just don’t like the sight that I know is behind me,” Harriet replied.

Rose looked back over Harriet’s shoulder towards the house and made a sympathetic face.

“It is rather ugly. I don’t actually see any workmen though. Just the scaffolds.”

Harriet swung around despite herself. The workingmen employed by Simon had been hard at work when she had woken that morning. Their incessant hammering had actually woken her earlier than she had intended. But Rose’s arrival for brunch had been enough to forestall the ill mood such a rude awakening would usually bring about. Their time spent catching up after several months apart had taken her mind from the work completely.

“I had not noticed that they had stopped. Were they working during brunch?” Harriet asked, frowning.

“I didn’t notice either. I was more interested in being reunited with my best friend,” Rose said playfully.

Harriet smiled distractedly. “It is the middle of the day and the repairs are important. There is a veritable river flowing through the third-floor library from the leaking roof. This worries me. Rose, would it be terrible of me to want to speak to Simon to find out what is happening?”

Rose grimaced but linked her arm with Harriet’s.

“A terrible imposition. But let’s do it anyway. You will not be happy until the mystery is solved.”

She laughed and the merry tinkle of the familiar sound brought a genuine smile to Harriet’s lips. Rose had always had the knack of doing that, which was precisely why she did it. As they walked back to the house, their abortive stroll in the gardens ended, and Rose leaned close.

“Is it really bad, Harry? The…um…situation?”

She looked worried and Harriet had no desire to lie to her in order to spare her concerns.

“Simon and I do our best to keep it from Eleanor but…every day seems to bring fresh evidence of papa’s cavalier attitude to money. And the pit we are sliding into gets a little deeper,” Harriet said.

“Oh dear. And I thought Lord Worthingham was such an adept businessman. My own papa was immensely proud that I was attending the same finishing school as the daughter of Worthingham. He always respected the ability to make money over all things.”

Rose made a face to show her opinion of such an attitude. Harriet sighed.

“Papa was a good and kind man. Too kind it seems. What he made through his estates and businesses, he lost through his charitable spirit. Simon is practically tearing his hair out.”

Rose squeezed her friend’s arm in an attempt to comfort her. They entered the wide drawing room through French doors that looked out onto the patio. The room beyond was mostly shrouded by dust sheets, the majority of the furniture covered as the room was part of a wing that Simon had closed, in order to allow some of the household staff to be released. Harriet had a master key and had intended to show Rose the south aspect until she remembered the sorry state of the house.

They hurried through the high-ceilinged room with its ceiling of chandeliers and elaborate plaster moldings. The wallpaper was a fine silk print of turquoise and gold, and the carpet, a royal blue. It had been Lord and Lady Worthingham’s favorite room. Passing through and locking the door behind them, the two women walked along hallways with bare patches on the walls, where pictures had been sold.

Finally, crossing the still-grand entrance hall and entering the Breakfast Room, they came across the new Lord Worthingham of Erdington. Simon had fair hair and a round face with blue eyes. His face was creased in concentration. One hand held a coffee cup with the air of having forgotten it was there. The other lay across a document filled with tight-packed columns of figures. His eyes darted back and forth.

“Simon, dear. Where are the workmen?” Harriet asked.

“God’s blood but I would like there to be one person in this house who does not ask me that question. They have downed tools because I cannot pay them!” Simon snarled.

Rose stopped short, a hand going to her mouth. Harriet put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow challengingly. Simon colored, putting down his coffee cup and then cursing as the liquid sloshed over the rim of the china.

“My apologies, cousin. And to you, Miss Mantell. I am somewhat distracted. There is a minor cash flow problem that I will resolve.”

Harriet’s face softened and she glanced at Rose, suddenly acutely aware that Simon would not wish to be forthcoming about money worries in front of a stranger. At least, Rose was a stranger to him, if not to Harriet.

“I’m sorry too, Simon. I should have known that you would be hard at work on the problem. You don’t need us cluttering up the place.”

“Actually, I was going to call you in anyway,” Simon said, standing from the table at which he had been sitting and crossing the room to the mantlepiece.

A white envelope had been placed behind the clock which stood there. He took it out and offered it to Harriet.

“Your invitation,” Simon told her.

Harriet frowned. “My invitation to what?”

“We all have one. The Duke of Wrexham is throwing a ball and you, I, and Eleanor are all invited.”

“Oh, how lucky you are Harry. The Duke of Wrexham is one of the wealthiest men in England. And the most sought after. Why, every Lord with an eligible daughter wants to marry her off to him. I had no idea you knew the Bolton family.”

Bolton was the family name of the Dukes of Wrexham. Rose crowded in eagerly to get a look at the invitation, which Harriet carefully removed from the envelope. It was written on stiff, white card with gold lettering in an exquisite hand.

“I didn’t realize we did either,” Harriet said, looking questionably at Simon.

He simply shrugged. “I have a passing acquaintanceship with the family. I will not look a gift horse in the mouth. We are invited and it could be the perfect opportunity to make some important connections. Everyone who is anyone will be there,” Simon said.

“A passing acquaintanceship?” Harriet enquired. “I had no idea, Simon. When did you meet a member of the Boltons?”

Simon waved the question away, returning to his coffee cup and draining it. “It is of no consequence. We are invited and I shall put to Edward Bolton my business plans, and pray that he is willing to invest. It could be the making of us.”

Chapter Two

“Oh, so you also received an invitation, did you?” Eleanor Worthingham said with barely concealed disappointment.

Eleanor was Harriet’s cousin and Simon’s sister. For reasons Harriet did not fully understand, there had always been a rivalry between them. Not on her own part, but from Eleanor towards her. She considered Eleanor to be far prettier than herself and with a more refined and fashionable wardrobe. She was also now a member of the family that owned Erdington.

The entailment that had resulted in the estate falling to Simon as the nearest male heir, instead of Harriet, also meant that Eleanor herself could not inherit. But, she was sister to the new Lord, while Harriet was merely a cousin. In Harriet’s mind, that should have meant that Eleanor would be content but the younger woman never seemed to be. Harriet and Rose had left Simon to his ledgers and his worries. They had ascended to the house’s second floor and the sitting room that Harriet now shared with Eleanor. The small room had once been Eleanor’s alone but she had been forced to share when the room adjoining Harriet’s quarters sprang a leak in the ceiling.

Simon could not afford to have it repaired, though this had been concealed from Eleanor. It meant that she was full of resentment, feeling that Harriet was receiving favorable treatment over herself. It did not make for pleasant company. Eleanor had Simon’s fair hair and blue eyes. But while her older brother had a pleasant, amiable disposition, Eleanor was anything but.

“Good morning, Eleanor,” Harriet said brightly, determined that she would not mirror Eleanor’s hostility.

“Good morning, cousin,” Eleanor replied frostily. “And to you, Miss Mantell.”

Rose gave a bow of her head and then looked to Harriet for permission to sit. Harriet suppressed a smile. Such slights were beyond her to think of but Rose was an adept politician. The moment was not missed by Eleanor, who smiled fixedly as her jaw clenched in irritation.

“And in answer to your question, cousin,” Harriet said, composing her skirts calmly. “Yes, I did receive an invitation of my own. So, I will be joining you and Simon on this occasion.”

And I hope you choke on that fact. You thought that because I have shunned these invitations in the past, I would do so again? I do not have that luxury anymore, though god knows I would rather not be at such an affair.

She actually felt somewhat guilty at the tightly controlled look of chagrin on Eleanor’s face. It simply was not in her nature to enjoy indulging in spiteful behavior. She would much prefer ignoring Eleanor and avoiding these sparring sessions. Sometimes, Eleanor made that difficult.

“I was rather under the impression that you did not care for such…what was it you called it once?” Eleanor feigned a moment of deep thought. “Ah yes, indulgences. I did not think you cared for such frivolous indulgences.”

“A person can change their mind on a subject,” Rose said.

And that is just what I have had to do, Rose dear. For the good of the family, though Eleanor does not know it.

“Indeed, I find that sometimes these social occasions are quite the thing. I find myself quite excited,” Harriet said.

Rose looked at her briefly. Harriet knew her well enough to recognize a thoughtful look of consideration.

She knows that I’m lying but doesn’t know the reason. I must keep my promise to Simon. Oh Rose, don’t you realize, one cannot find a husband without mixing with society. And I cannot help Simon without a husband.

Thankfully, Rose said nothing but merely nodded as though in complete agreement. Eleanor’s face had reddened and she stood abruptly. Harriet raised a cool eyebrow as Eleanor made a visible effort to control her rising anger.

“I will leave the two of you, I have business to attend to if you will excuse me.”

Both Harriet and Rose gave gracious nods of acquiescence and Eleanor left the room. As the door closed behind her and Eleanor’s footsteps withdrew along the bare boards of the hallway, Rose let out a long-suppressed laugh. Harriet made to shush her.

“Oh Harry, however do you put up with such a spoiled brat?” Rose protested.

“By the simple fact that I try to look for the best in everyone,” Harriet replied.

She and Rose looked at each other for a moment, then Harriet laughed. “Everyone, even spoiled brats. No, no, I will not be drawn into laughing at my family behind their backs. Eleanor may be a little childish still, but that is because she is young. Do you remember being eighteen, Rose?”

“I do. Heaven forgive me if I was ever such a little…decorum prevents me from finishing that sentence. More importantly, since when did Harriet Worthingham care about a ball? I expected that you would end up married to a writer or a penniless artist. Are you seeking the approval of the county set?”

Her tone was light but her eyes were sharp. Harriet considered her response. The financial situation of her family was not her secret to tell. Simon was struggling to keep the household afloat and it was visibly aging him on an almost daily basis.

“On the subject of maturity. Perhaps I have finally grown up? One cannot spend all of one’s life, say, dreaming of adventure. The world is a difficult place for women with no resources behind them…and no husband.”

Forgive me, dear Rose for the lies I must tell. If Simon gives his consent I will tell you all, I swear it.

“Hmmm, a sentiment that just seems out of character but the proof is before me, I suppose. You really are going to attend?”

Harriet nodded with what she hoped was eagerness. “Yes, I really am. I intend to dance with some handsome gentlemen and perhaps, find one with whom I could be happy. Or not, as the case may be. But, I must do my duty.”

Rose frowned. “Duty? I have never heard you call love a duty. And we did always swear that we would only marry for love.”

So naive we were as schoolgirls, Rose. And so different. You with your family wealth behind you and all the freedom that brings.

“We did. But my circumstances demand that I look to the future and that of my family.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “Circumstances? By heaven, is Simon in trouble? Do you need help? You know that papa would…”

Harriet held up a hand, forcing a smile. “No, Rosie. You misunderstand. I merely speak of the duty of a daughter to her family name.”

Rose did not seem convinced. “Because you know that you need only ask…”

As if I could ever bring myself to do that. It is worse knowing that you and your dear father would go out of your way to help. No, Rosie, this is for the Worthinghams alone.

“Thank you, Rosie,” Harriet said. “As usual, you are the best friend anyone could ask for. Now, Eleanor and all the talk of dances have occupied us for long enough. I don’t wish to spend any more time in such talk. Not when we have so much else to talk about,” Harriet said.

They passed the rest of the morning in reminiscence, about adventures and misadventures at school and since. By lunchtime, Rose went to her room to wash and Harriet took the opportunity to seek out Simon. She found him where she had left him. He looked as though he was drowning in the sea of ledgers and paper that had flooded his table in the library. As she entered the room, he looked up sharply.

“Your friend, Miss Mantell is not with you?”

“No, Simon. She is washing for lunch. We are alone.” Harriet closed the library doors and turned the key in the lock. Then she crossed the room to take a seat across from Simon.

“Will you tell me what has you so worried? I know that money is short but you just seem to be more and more worried with each passing day. Is it really so bad?” she asked.

Simon looked at her for a moment as though considering lying. Then he seemed to visibly deflate. He sagged in his chair and covered his face with a hand. Harriet felt a surge of sympathy for him. Since he was a child, Simon had been a sensitive boy, most upset when he felt he was not living up to the expectations of his demanding father. His side of the family was distant from her own but Harriet had spent some childhood summers with her parents at the Norwenshire home, not far from Birmingham, in which Simon had grown up with Eleanor.

“The truth is, Harriet. We are…to use a vulgar phrase…broke,” Simon said miserably. “I did not inherit as great a fortune as you may have expected from your father. It was greatly diminished by the time he died. I do not know if it was mismanagement or if someone within the estate was stealing. But…the truth is, we are perilously close to complete bankruptcy.”

Chapter Three

March 1814 

Franklin House

Soft skin and gentle, sensuous curves. Edward’s first sensation upon waking was the feel of the luscious body that was pressed against him. Eyes still closed, he moved his hand from where it rested on a firm thigh, up over the glorious rounding of the hips. Fingers splayed across her stomach and rested there for a moment. The response was a murmur, delicious in its femininity and vulnerability. Then, the sinuous body squirmed against him. His hands found her round, pert bosom and gently squeezed.

“Good morning, your grace,” she said in a sleepy cultured voice.

“Good morning, Alexandria. Thank you for another fascinating discussion last night. What was it we talked about?”

Alexandria chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. “Economics, I believe.”

“Ah yes. I love a good…economic discussion.”

“Certainly more invigorating than anything you would get at your club.”

“Do you think so? There are a few members who…went to Cambridge.”

“But not you?”

“I sailed through Oxford. And I’m proud to say it barely touched me,” Edward whispered.

Alexandria’s hand closed around him, squeezing firmly, but Edward was already moving away. She made a disappointed noise, kicking the bedclothes away from her and lying on her back, arms spread and legs crossed coquettishly.

“It is morning, dear Alex. And there is business to be about. I cannot dally all day in bed with you.”

“You’ve changed, darling. There was a time you wouldn’t get up before dusk, and then spend all night at the club and then in my bed.”

“Your bed?” Edward said with a wink.

He walked across the room to the huge, antique wardrobe, pulling open the doors and selecting a shirt and breeches.

“Most of the time,” Alexandria replied, “I’ve missed you. My husband is an old man. All he cares about is his precious porcelain collection.”

Edward scrubbed a hand through his unruly dark hair. His stomach was flat and muscled, chest and arms well defined. Like many sons of the gentry, he had taken an officer’s commission in the army. Like most who did, he’d expected to spend his time at Horseguards, looking pretty in his uniform. The fine white scars that crisscrossed his abdomen stood testament along with his honed body to the fact that he had done far more than attended with the Prince Regent at court, or pushed papers for the Department of War.

After collecting an assortment of garments and casting them onto the bed, he began to dress.

“You really are an inconvenience in the mornings, Alex,” he said, “if you weren’t here, I would summon Rafeson to dress me. A gentleman really mustn’t bother with all this nonsense.”

He gestured at the cravat, tie pin, underclothes, breeches, shirt, coat, and other accouterments of the gentleman’s wardrobe.

Alexandria, wife of the Duke of Richmond and, therefore, one of the elite of London society, sat up. She propped herself with her hands behind her, letting her breasts be exposed to him without shame. The sheet fell away from her stomach to reveal just a hint of her womanhood. Edward’s eyes lingered there for a moment and she gave a wicked smile.

“Are you sure, Edward?”

Dark eyes locked with hers. “Yes. Quite sure. You of all people know how much work goes into arranging a ball. Especially one of this scale. Half the country is invited.”

“Yes, I’m quite looking forward to it. Am I to assume that this ball to which you have attached so much significance will presage the end of our…fun?”

Edward arched an eyebrow. Then, without warning, he leaped onto the bed, kissed Alexandria, and pressed her onto her back. One hand circled her buttocks while another squeezed one of her breasts. She had time for a startled gasp before she succumbed to his passionate kisses. Presently, he lifted his head.

“Never,” he whispered.

“But, rake that you are, you care too much about your name to disgrace any prospective wife by being openly adulterous,” Alexandria said, winding her fingers through his shaggy dark hair.

“True. But I must see Rebecca safely married off before I can think of myself. That is the ulterior motive you’re looking for behind this soiree.”

He kissed her again, forgetting his own decision not to dally beneath the sheets after sunrise. Their bodies entwined and kissing became more heated, hands more insistent as touching and caressing became grabbing. When Alexandria began to undo the dressing Edward had already achieved, he pulled away. Alexandria screeched like a scalded cat and threw a pillow at him. Edward laughed.

Alexandria looked at him for a long moment, her frustrated desire putting anger in her eyes. But, Edward’s easy, boyish grin was infectious. She chuckled, flinging the sheets away from her and standing, looking around the clothes Edward had ripped from her the previous night.

“My dress better be intact. You were most insistent in your disrobing of me.”

Edward laughed again, putting on a silk brocade vest of black and purple, over tan breeches.

“So, do you have a prospective suitor in mind for your sister?” Alexandria asked.

“Yes, a very worthy fellow. I came across him in the army. Stout fellow, very solid. Perhaps you know him? Grantley is the name. Philip. He will be Duke of Stamford.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him. You couldn’t find someone a little less stone-faced?”

“He’s not a rake like me. Almost puritan in his values, in fact. Just the kind of serious-minded man that will ensure Rebecca is taken care of. She does not need a clown for a husband.”

“And you would be content with Rebecca spending the rest of her days in the distant north. Where is Stamford? Scotland?”

“Hardly. Yorkshire. Twenty miles from York. Not exactly the ends of the earth.”

“It would be for me. Poor Rebecca. Have they met?”

Edward was dressed. He strode to the curtains and yanked them wide. Pale daylight flooded the room. Beyond lay the streets of Chelsea. Franklin Place was quiet at this time of the morning. Somewhere behind the rows of townhouses, a milk delivery cart clattered, kept out of sight of the gentry to make its delivery to the servant’s entrance. The houses were tall and immaculately dressed. The city beyond was misty, the highest buildings poking through in murky silhouette.

“No,” he said distractedly, “they will meet at the ball.”

“Then I at least hope, for Rebecca’s sake, that you will have told her of your plans before she meets him.”

Edward turned back from the window. London was a distraction he could do without. Once it had been his playground, but that was a long time ago. As he often did when considering his youth, he uttered a silent prayer within his head to the spirit of his father.

Forgive me papa for my callow youth. I did not know. But I will make you proud.

“Of course I will tell her. It is important that she makes a good impression. Grantley will have his pick of prospective wives. She must stand out from the lot.”

“And if she rebels? Rebecca always struck me as the romantic sort. Something like you, when you were her age.”

Again the boyish grin from Edward, his typical defense mechanism.

“Was I ever romantic?”

“The very soul of romance.” Alexandria laughed, stepping into her dress having already put on petticoat and underskirt.

“Well, she will understand her duty as a Bolton. And she will see that duty done,” Edward said with finality.

“And if she does not see it so?” Alexandria persisted.

Edward was shrugging on a coat of deep blue, studying himself in the mirror. He stopped, looking at Alexandria’s reflection.

“You continue to ask. Do you think she will resist my choice for her?”

He did not believe that Rebecca would be so irresponsible. But then, once upon a time, so had he.

“She may. You are not her father.”

“I am Duke and therefore father to her in all but name. She is my responsibility. And this is in her own best interest. A match with the Duke of Stamford will bring her prestige and a comfortable income for life. What more could she want?”

Alexandria’s pouting lips twitched into a mocking smile.

“Love, my dear Teddy.”

“Love?” Edward scoffed. “Love is for poets and fools. It is not practical. When I marry, it will be for the betterment of my family and my name. That is all.”