Chapter One

Mayfair, London, 1817

“Patricia! What are you doing? We must not dally!”

Lady Patricia Hunter glanced back at her sixteen-year-old sister Margaret, dressed in a pretty white frilled gown, who was poised at the top of the staircase with one hand resting on the balustrade. Margaret’s face was a pale oval, her fair eyebrows knotted, as she entreated her sister.

“The carriage is waiting for us,” continued Margaret, biting her lip. “You know Mama will be most displeased with us if we are late for Lady Davis’s garden party. She was most specific in her instructions…”

Patricia frowned distractedly. “You go ahead, Margaret. I shall be along presently. I promise.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Mama shall have no cause to be displeased. We shall not be late.”

Margaret hesitated. Her eyes flickered towards the closed door, where Patricia was hovering. “You should not be eavesdropping, sister,” she said, in a loud, shocked whisper. “Mama and Papa will skin your hide if they find out.”

Patricia shushed her sister with a finger on her mouth. “They will not find out. Now go. I command it.”

Margaret hesitated for another second, before clattering down the staircase. Patricia turned back to the closed door. She had already forgotten about Margaret and Lady Davis’s garden party. All she was focused on was the voices within the parlour. Raised, angry voices.

She leaned closer towards the door, placing her face next to it. This was important. She must discover why her parents were arguing so ferociously. The fact that they were even fighting was shocking in itself; her parents never fought. At most, they might have a heated disagreement. And she did not think she had ever heard them shouting at each other in this shocking manner.

Her heart lurched with dread. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed. And she intended to discover exactly what it was.

Lady Davis’s garden party could jolly well wait.

***

Patricia could hear them clearly. Her father Lord Henry Hunter, Viscount Chant, had probably been enjoying a leisurely afternoon, reading the newspapers with an after-luncheon brandy as was his habit. He would have been surprised to have been interrupted by his wife. Mama usually left him well alone.

Patricia heard her mother’s pained, raised voice.

“How could you?” screeched Lady Hunter. “Our future! The future of our daughters! You have gambled it all away.”

“What are you talking about, Gertrude?” blustered her father. “Can a man not have some peace without being harassed in this manner? You are behaving like a harpy.”

Patricia could hear the barely contained rage in her mother’s voice.

“Do not try to put me off, Henry,” she said. “I know. I have always known where you have been slinking off to, when we are residing in London. Gambling dens. Pits of iniquity.” She drew a deep breath into her lungs. “Do not think I have not noticed how things have been changing here. Servants being dismissed without good reason. Objects vanishing, that I cannot account for.”

Patricia heard her father groan.

“You have been gambling more than you can afford,” hissed her mother. “I have turned a blind eye to it, in the vain hope that you would come to your senses. But I see now that you are beyond redemption.” She paused. “I have discovered notes of sale for most of our assets. Patricia’s dowry is virtually gone.”

Outside the door, Patricia gasped in shock. No. It simply could not be possible. Her dowry was gone? Tears of shock pricked behind her eyes. Her future was ruined.

“How dare you!” her father suddenly yelled. “How dare you sneak about my study like a thief, invading my privacy. I shall make very sure to lock the drawers in my desk from hereon in, madam!”

Patricia lowered her eye to the keyhole, just in time to see her mother throw a pile of letters into the air, which scattered like rice at a wedding around both her parents.

“That is what I think of your privacy,” cried her mother. “You have all but ruined us, Henry Hunter. Patricia cannot hope to secure a match with a gentleman she actually admires now. You have taken the choice away from her.” She sobbed with rage for a moment. “My beautiful, accomplished eldest daughter must sell herself to the highest bidder, instead of being swept off her feet by a suitor who truly deserves her.”

Outside the parlour, Patricia shuddered in horror. She felt her blood run cold. She was very glad now that she had put off Margaret and insisted on eavesdropping on this fight. This was far more important than any garden party.

She collapsed against the closed door for a moment. Her mind was reeling. Papa – her beloved, charming, but feckless father – had spent most of her dowry. He had gambled away her very future.

She had been raised in splendour, wanting for nothing. Her father was a viscount. They had a grand country home in Staffordshire, with a hundred servants, full stables, and acres of prime hunting land. When they came to London, they always resided at this fashionable townhouse on Park Street, near Hyde Park. London was always a whirlwind of social calls, visits to the opera and ballet at Covent Garden, and shopping on Bond and Regent streets.

And now, that was all about to change, in ways that she had never envisaged.

She stifled a sob. How bad was it? Would they still be able to keep their homes? Would she and Margaret be reduced to penury, before too long, forced to become governesses? She shuddered at the very thought.

“I hope you are happy with yourself,” continued Lady Hunter, in an anguished voice. “I hope it was all worth it, Henry. You have gambled the futures of Patricia and Margaret away. I am only grateful that Margaret is still only sixteen and has not yet debuted.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “It will be different for Patricia. She is nineteen and this is her second season. I was hoping she would have time to find a gentleman she actually admires and likes. Now all is ruined for her.”

Patricia couldn’t bear it any longer. She fled down the hallway toward her chambers. She knew that Margaret was still waiting for her in the carriage, but she simply could not attend a garden party now. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone. She didn’t have a single word of sparkling repartee within her.

She threw herself upon her bed, sobbing piteously. Her whole world had tilted on its side and she was bereft. How had it come to this?

She had been brought up as a lady, the daughter of a viscount. Lord Hunter was worth a fortune. She had never been pressured to desperately seek a matrimonial match for the want of fortune, as some poor ladies in her acquaintance did. Like Miss Lucinda Pettigrove whose father had died leaving her little income. The young lady’s mother hounded her from noon to night to secure a wealthy husband. Poor Miss Pettigrove often had the pinched look of a hunted bird. Patricia had always felt sorry for her.

And now she was in exactly the same position.

She sat up, wiping the tears away, with the back of her hand. She must think clearly now. So much was at stake. Not just for herself, but her younger sister too.

Her heart sank. It seemed that she must secure a good matrimonial match very soon. It was imperative. A gentleman of great fortune. It hardly mattered who he was, only that he was wealthy. It was the only way that she could not only make sure she was secure, but that Margaret was, as well. An obscenely wealthy husband could be persuaded to hand over a dowry for her sister if she played her cards well, and Margaret would then have the freedom to choose her husband.

And she was willing to sacrifice herself if it assured Margaret could one day have the marriage she deserved.

She shuddered. Only an hour ago she had believed she could choose her own husband; that she had time to wait until she found a gentleman she admired and, hopefully, loved. That hope was gone now. But she would be content if Margaret could still have that option when her time came. It would have to be enough.

There was a knock at the door. Patricia took a deep breath, wiping away the last of her tears. “Come in.”

The door opened. Mrs. Black, the middle-aged housekeeper, stood there, dressed in a severely plain dark green gown, keys jangling from her apron pocket. Her brown hair was pulled back into a simple bun, covered with a white cap.

“Your sister asked me to check on you, my Lady,” said the housekeeper, gazing at her impassively. “She says you must come to the carriage now or else you shall surely be late to your engagements.”

Patricia nodded, standing up. There would be many eligible, wealthy gentlemen at Lady Davis’s garden party, after all. She had suddenly become a fortune hunter and must think and act accordingly, from now on.

She took a deep breath. It seemed the show must go on.

***

Late that afternoon, after they had returned from the party and all was chillingly quiet in the house on Park Lane, Patricia stood at the window of the drawing-room, gazing out at the street beyond.

She sighed wearily. It had been a moderately successful afternoon, she supposed. Two gentlemen had paid attention to her. She had taken a turn around the gardens on the arm of Lord Walters, a very wealthy baron, who had seemed charmed by her. But Lord Walters was forty if he was a day, with a balding pate and bad breath. How could she endure encouraging him?

She sighed again, thinking of the other gentleman. Lord Cosgrove, who had engaged her in a game of croquet. He was younger, at least than Lord Walters. Only in his early thirties, she supposed. He was not handsome or witty in the least, but he was blandly pleasant. She could encourage him, couldn’t she? He did not set her heart afire, but he might be a good husband. And he owned two grand country homes, as well as a townhouse on Berkeley Square.

She gripped the lace curtain tightly. It was all so very mercenary. But she could do it. She must do it.

The door opened. Yates, the butler, stood there, clutching a letter with a red wax seal.

“Pardon me, my Lady,” he said, in his familiar clipped voice. “A letter has just arrived for you.”

Patricia thanked him, taking the letter. The wax seal broke easily between her fingers. She smiled slowly as she read it. It was from her dear friend, Lady Eleanor Reynolds, who had just arrived in London, and was now resident at her house on Grosvenor Square.

Patricia’s smile widened. Eleanor wanted her help to plan a charity event for St. Anne’s Orphanage, which was in a very poor area of London near Westminster Abbey, called the Almonry. An area that Patricia knew was also infamously referred to as The Devil’s Acre. Eleanor had always been kind of heart and compassionate, wanting to help the poor. She was the patron of many charities and chaired a few altruistic committees as well.

Patricia sat down at the desk, dipping a quill into the ink pot, to pen a reply. Helping Eleanor would distract her from her troubles. And besides, she was itching to see her friend again. It had been a whole season since she had last set eyes upon her sweet face.

The door opened again. Patricia turned from her writing; the quill suspended in the air. It was her mother, eyeing her carefully.

“How was Lady Davis’s garden party?” Lady Hunter asked, slowly walking into the room.

Patricia’s heart thumped uncomfortably. “It was agreeable,” she said, in a cautious voice.

There was an awkward silence.

“Patricia,” said her mother, looking stricken. “Mrs. Black told me that she saw you at the parlour door, when your father and I were…talking heatedly.” She paused. “There is something I must speak with you about…”

Patricia lay down the quill, rising to her feet and facing her mother. She took a deep breath.

“There is no need, Mama,” she said slowly. “I understand my duty. I understand everything.” She took another deep breath. “And I shall do what is required, for Margaret’s sake. So that she may secure a match she deserves, with a gentleman she loves and who loves her equally.”

Her mother looked shocked. “Oh, dearest,” she said, in a stricken voice. “I am so very sorry for your sake.”

They gazed at each other. There was simply nothing more to say. The die had been cast, and it had not fallen in her favour. She must accept it.

Patricia’s heart dropped to the floor. It was real. Her dream of securing a love match was well and truly gone.

 

Chapter Two

Lord Jackson Fisher, the Marquess of Thornton, twisted on the bed, clawing at the bedsheet. Sweat was oozing down his neck. He was back there again, in the sticky mud, with the smell of blood and decay lingering in the air, like some obscene miasma. That day upon the battlefield, when everything had changed…

Bloodcurdling cries as men fell like swatted flies around him. He was in the thick of it. The enemy were right there. He raised his bayonet, his heart pounding like a drum.

Something was wrong. Something happened that should not have happened, and he was suddenly exposed.

He didn’t see the bayonet coming. With a cry of surprise and pain, it sliced his flesh like a knife cutting into a ripe peach. The heat of the blood was a shock. Bewildered, he raised a hand, desperately trying to stem the flow.

His knees buckling beneath him, he fell headfirst into the mud, screaming. The blood washed into his eyes until it seemed like the whole world was a river of red…

Jackson reared up from the bed, his eyes flinging open. He couldn’t breathe. Where was he?

He raised a hand to his right cheek, half expecting blood to be flowing from it. But it wasn’t. He felt the raised, jagged flesh. The perpetual reminder of that day that his mind would never let him forget. Early morning light flooded through the curtains on the window. Another day at Thornbury Manor in this quiet patch of country England. A world away from the battlefield.

The bedroom door opened. Mr. Harris, the butler stood there, clutching a note within his hand. He was frowning.

“I apologise for disturbing you, my Lord,” he said, in a grave voice. “But a letter just arrived by urgent messenger from London.”

Jackson stared at the man, his heart flipping over in his chest. Something was wrong. But it had nothing to do with the battlefield anymore.

***

Jackson leaned down over the sweating black stallion, spurring it on. He must be more than halfway on this desperate ride to London, surely. But he had made a spontaneous decision to take a back road at the crossroads a mile back, having heard that it was a shortcut. And now he wasn’t at all sure he had made the right choice.

Droplets of rain drizzled upon him and there were many deep puddles, indicating much rain had fallen in this area not long ago. He squinted up at the sky. Ominous grey clouds hovered above him. He would be a drowned rat within seconds if it decided to bucket down again.

He grimaced, weaving around a puddle. He must be careful. He did not know this road and Cassius, his stallion, could break a leg in one of these potholes. Of course, he could have taken the carriage and ridden in ease and comfort, but a carriage could not go as fast as he could on horseback. And he must get to London before it was too late.

His father could be breathing his last, right at this very moment.

Jackson cursed under his breath. The letter that had arrived that morning by urgent messenger had been a summons. His father, the Duke of Merriweather, had taken a turn for the worse. There was mention of possible apoplexy. Jackson knew his father had been unwell for weeks, but it had been no cause for concern. Until now.

His heart lurched sickeningly. The summons had turned his whole world upside down. Up until that moment, he could have sworn that he did not care much if the old man lived or died. But hearing that he was on his deathbed had changed all that, in the blink of an eye. He had saddled Cassius within ten minutes and hit the road.

His eyes filled with helpless tears. He might be too late. This desperate flight to London might be for nothing, but he had to try. He could not live with himself otherwise.

Suddenly, Cassius neighed loudly, rearing back. A hare had scuttled across the horse’s path. Jackson controlled him with difficulty.

“There, boy,” he whispered into the horse’s ear, as soon as he was settled. He cast an expert eye over the stallion. Cassius’s coat was slick with sweat and his nostrils were flaring in distress. He had been riding hard for over three hours now and must have a break before he collapsed.

He squinted into the distance. He could just make out a large dwelling on the horizon. An inn, thank the Lord. He did not want to stop but he must. He would rest the horse and take an ale himself and be back on the road within half an hour. Hopefully, it would not make the difference.

***

Jackson pushed open the heavy door of the inn. A rusted sign at the front had declared its name The Blue Duck. He cast an eye around. A fire flickered in the hearth. There were perhaps a dozen men, spread out over the large room, all nursing drinks. He had already settled Cassius in the accompanying stable, giving the horse water. Now he needed some quick refreshment of his own.

“What’ll it be, squire?” asked the bulky man behind the counter, as he sat down on a stool.

“Ale,” said Jackson, tossing him a coin. “And make sure it’s cold.”

The man grunted, taking the coin. Within two minutes he had a glass of frothy ale in front of him. He drank greedily. He was thirstier than he had thought. He ordered another, drinking it in a more leisurely fashion, as he assessed the inn.

It was rundown, and shabby, probably built in Tudor times. The ceiling had low beams and the walls looked like they were packed with straw. The men drinking were all locals, judging by the cut of their clothing. The Blue Duck obviously did not get many travellers, on this desolate back road in the middle of nowhere.

He took a gulp of his second ale, turning back to the bar. The last time he had been in a place like this had been in Spain during the war. It had looked different, of course – the architecture, and the clientele. But it had been similar in other respects. A remote watering hole for locals, who often did not take kindly to strangers. He knew he must be careful in a place like this.

His mind lingered for a moment on that other inn. It had been five years ago, when he had been on short leave from the frontline. He had been bedraggled and exhausted, bleary from bloodshed, but with the sickening knowledge he must return soon. The endless battles to defeat the mad emperor Napoleon from extending his empire throughout the whole of Europe, and perhaps even England. He had thought he would never see his country or home again.

The occupants turned almost as one as the door opened once more. A woman strolled in, her smile flickering from one man to the other indiscriminately. A local doxy, thought Jackson, judging by her low-cut cheap gown and the way she moved. Her bosom was almost spilling out of the tightly corseted bodice. She had bright red hair, falling in corkscrew curls around her face.

She sidled up to him. “Fancy some company, squire?”

He turned to look at her. She gasped, instinctively stepping back, before her smile hesitantly returned. Jackson winced. He was used to that reaction from people who viewed his face for the first time by now, but it never became easier.

He knew she would ignore it, if he paid her enough. He paid women like her good coin to do just that all the time. But he had neither the time nor the inclination at the moment. He drained his glass, setting it on the counter.

“Maybe another time,” he said, moving away.

Suddenly, a large man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Jackson gazed at him steadily. He had the physique of a giant, with lank brown hair, and deep-set black eyes. He was dressed in the worn clothes of a labourer. He flexed hands that looked like they could break the trunk of a tree.

“You aren’t from around here,” said the man slowly, in a thick Midlands accent. “We don’t much like strangers in these parts.”

“You don’t say,” replied Jackson, in a deceptively mild voice. “I am just leaving. Stand aside.”

The man didn’t move. Jackson saw a vein twitching in his right temple. He was spoiling for a fight. That much was obvious. And he simply didn’t have the time.

“What happened to yer face?” the man drawled. “Don’t think I have ever seen an uglier scar than that. Someone carved you up good. Couldn’t pay the debts for your cards, squire?” His voice was thick with derision.

Jackson saw red. The casual callous comment from the man, the scornful contempt, was simply too much. He had dealt with too much of it over the years. Without thinking about it any further, he punched the man square in the face. The man squealed like a stuck pig, his hands flying to his nose, as blood gushed through his fingers.

“Ye’ve broken it,” he cried hoarsely.

Jackson took a deep breath. “I daresay. Hopefully, that broken nose won’t make you too ugly, now. Or at least any uglier than you already are. Good day.”

He side-stepped the man quickly, walking to the door. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the inn following him. He didn’t need to turn around to know their jaws were probably agape.

He grinned to himself, quickly walking to the stable. People often misjudged him. They thought a well-born gentleman was a lily-livered walkover. But no one ever got the better of him, now. He briefly touched the scar on his right cheek. Not after that time, anyway.

He had learned much on the battlefields. Sometimes his soul was weary even thinking of it.

***

It was almost dark by the time Jackson finally reached the house in St. James. Wearily, he led Cassius to the mews. What he wouldn’t give for a hot meal and a bed. But that must wait. Time was of the absolute essence.

He strode into the house through the back entrance, calling out. The place seemed deserted, without even a servant in sight. He took the stairs two at a time, heading towards his father’s chambers. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. He felt strangely alert, like he did just before he had headed into battle.

He didn’t knock. He pushed open the door.

His heart pounded harder, as he took in the scene in front of him. Mrs. Clark, the housekeeper, standing beside the bed, wringing her hands. A doctor with his head bowed, sitting on a chair. And in the middle of the room, a mahogany four-poster bed, with a figure lying stony still upon it, eyes closed and hands resting on his chest.

He staggered, almost falling. He was too late.

Mrs. Clark suddenly saw him. “Oh, my Lord,” she cried, rushing towards him. Her eyes were moist. “He just breathed his last not two minutes ago…”

“What?” he cried in anguish. If only he hadn’t had to stop at that accursed inn. He flexed his still throbbing right hand.

“It was very peaceful, my Lord,” continued the housekeeper, taking a deep breath. “He simply slipped away.”

Jackson walked slowly towards the bed studying the still figure upon it. His father, who was suddenly no more. The old man seemed to have shrivelled since he had last seen him. His snow-white hair was plastered to his skull. The blue eyes that had always been snapping with restless energy were closed forever.

He struggled with conflicting emotions, all raging through him, like an intense wave. They had never been close. The Duke of Merriweather had been distant with him since he was a boy. His father had never spent much time with him, and when he had, it had always been to lecture him about duty.

He had barely seen him since his return from war four years ago. His father had mocked the scar on his face, seeing it as a sign of weakness, that his son had not fought hard enough. It had never occurred to the old man that perhaps the scar was a sign that he had fought well and survived. That he was home, safe but not wholly sound.

His fists clenched. What did any of it matter now?

“See that he is laid out properly,” he said, abruptly turning away, and walking out of the room. It took all of his control not to slam the door behind him.

He leant against it trying to breathe. He had tried and he had failed. What had he been hoping for, anyway? A last-minute reconciliation, where the old man would beg for his love and goodwill, telling him how proud he was of him? It was never going to happen. And now, it never would.

***

Gordon, the butler, walked into the late Duke’s study. Jackson barely glanced up at him from where he was sitting at his father’s desk. His late father’s desk, now. All that was in this room, as well as this house and the entire duchy estate, was now his. It was a strangely disconcerting thought. He had honestly thought this day would never come; that somehow his father was immortal.

“Your brandy, my Lord,” said the butler, placing a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid and a glass upon the desk. Suddenly, he straightened. “I do apologise, your Grace.”

Jackson stared at the stooped man. Gordon had been in his father’s service forever. “It is quite alright, Gordon. I am not used to the fact that I am the Duke of Merriweather yet either.”

The butler bowed. He looked like he wanted to say something else. But then he drifted out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Jackson was alone again.

He poured himself a tall brandy, gazing around the room. It had been a long, wearying day. A day that had started one way and ended in another direction entirely. He had been on the other side of the country this morning. Now he was in London, and he was suddenly a duke. It all seemed like some kind of hazy dream.

He sipped the warm liquid, feeling it hit his bloodstream like fire. Suddenly, his eyes alighted on a letter, hidden beneath some other documents. A letter with his name on it and in a familiar hand. The hand of his late father.

He couldn’t breathe for a moment. Slowly he placed down the glass, picking up the envelope and breaking the seal with trembling hands.

My dearest boy,

I trust you shall find this letter when you make an inventory of my study. It has been on my mind to write to you for a long time now. There is much to say, and I have been a coward in saying it. But I must before it is too late.

You are now the eighth Duke of Merriweather, an esteemed title, going back to the days of the War of the Roses. I should have prepared you for this. The only excuse I can give is that you reminded me too much of my dear departed Eliza, your mother, who died giving birth to you. I could never let myself get close to you without seeing her, reminding me of my loss. I am sorrier for this than I can say.

You are a fine man, Jackson, and will make a great duke. I am so very proud of you and the man you have become. I know that the war changed you. I know that you have tried to forget it in the arms of common women. But I beseech you, now that you the Duke, to put those days behind you. Take a wife, my son, and one day you may have an heir. Embrace your destiny, not just for my sake and the continuation of the line but for your own.

You are more than your scars, Jackson. Never forget it.

Your ever loving Father

Jackson let the letter fall from his hand onto the floor. He couldn’t even see through the blur of his tears.

He had ridden hard to speak to his father before he left this earth and he had failed. But now, with this letter, it was as if his father was speaking to him. As if he was in the room with him.

His father was proud of him. His father wanted him to finally heal. And his father wanted him to marry and continue the proud line.

Jackson knew it would not be easy. Once he had hoped to marry and have children. But the war, and the scar he carried from it, had changed everything. It was the reason he hid away from society and kept the company of common women. He was afeared that no worthy ladycould ever see past it. He was a broken man, inside and out.

But perhaps it was time, to finally attempt to lay it all to rest.

I will try, Father, he thought, letting the tears fall at long last. I will do my very best. For your sake.

He got up, walking towards the looking glass in the corner. A dark-haired man stared back at him. A man with a jagged scar marring his face. How could any lady ever gaze upon him without distaste?

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Chapter One

The tavern’s Thursday night show—which was one of the biggest attractions for patrons—was about to end.

Margaret got to her feet with a sigh, ready to start cleaning. It was so packed that there was hardly room to breathe; she wondered how the crowds could stand it in there.

She preferred to watch the performance from behind the makeshift stage. It almost felt as if she were part of the show as she watched the players from this vantage point as she recited their lines loudly on stage and then ran off, complaining that their bonnets were too tight. Beside her, Oscar hacked and spit a glob of green mucous on the ground with a choking sound. Grabbing the ever-present cup on her belt, she hurried to the pitcher of water sitting on the table behind the stage.

Her brother shook his head, twisting his lips. “I don’t need it.”

“Well, drink it because I want you to, Oscar.” Her voice was sharper than she’d meant it to be.

He gave her a deep, put upon sigh and reached for the cup. “Alright.” She watched him down it all, the blue tinge around his lips and labored breathing worrying her more than she could say. But there wasn’t much else she could do for him at the moment.

She had taken him to a healer she knew in the rookeries a few weeks ago, who gave her some yarrow and purple foxglove to make into a tea. It had helped a little, but not enough, and every day she woke up fearing she might lose her five-year-old brother.

Her one and only remaining kin.

Oscar looked up at her and frowned as he returned the cup. “Why are you frowning like that? Did Luther steal your buns again?”

In spite of herself, she could not help but huff in amusement. Luther was the chimney sweep who spent his time when not working hiding in corners and stealing food. He had so far managed to pick Margaret’s pockets twice, much to her annoyance, but she was wise to him now. She wasn’t surprised it had come to Oscar’s mind. The last time Luther had done that, they’d had to sleep hungry.

“Not at all. I’m just worried that there might not be any soup left over, seeing as it’s so full tonight.”

Oscar wrinkled his nose. “Oh, well…” he hacked and coughed and spat again, the globule of mucous tinged ominously dark, “I’m not very hungry tonight anyway.”

She knew full well it was a lie but didn’t call him out on it or point out that she’d heard his stomach growling. If she had some spare change, she might have gone out to get him a pigeon pie, but tonight they would have to rely on Mrs. Gendry’s generosity to eat.

Margaret’s lip twisted, “Go on and get me my bucket. The sooner I finish, the faster we can leave and you can get some hot water for your throat. Don’t think I missed your wheezing there, young man.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.” Oscar tossed his head dramatically, “I shall go now and get a bucket from Maisie. She’s much nicer to me than you are.”

Margaret laughed, knowing full well that Oscar adored her employer. “You do that.”

She listened as he walked away, his breath seeming to come increasingly short with every step. She could not wait to get to their lodgings at the Devil’s Acre, tuck him into the meager blanket on their palette, and give him some hot water to drink. Not being able to afford some tea or, better yet, a tisane for him, it was the best she could do.

With the Season approaching in a few weeks, gentlemen tended to abandon King’s Street entertainment for the more hallowed ballrooms and parlors of the West End. As a consequence, Margaret and all the other tavern girls got fewer tips. She was eager for the surge in patrons, though she did not exactly enjoy having to endure the groping and remarks that accompanied them. Many a gentleman had tried to lure her to the dark alley behind the tavern, in search of something more than a quick grab at her bottom.

Fighting them off had become so commonplace that she hardly thought about it these days. Her hands shook as she rinsed out the rag she used to wipe off the tables. Oscar’s wheezing drew closer as he returned with her bucket and she knew she was going to have to do something about that soon.

Perhaps I should accept carte-blanche from some wealthy gent, as the actresses do.

She shuddered at the thought. Her mother had lived under just such an arrangement with a minor nobleman. The toll it had taken on her was apparent to anyone who had been forced to live with her bad moods when he was not around. When she had sickened with the consumption, her protector had simply disappeared, leaving a young Margaret to watch helplessly as her mother faded away, all the while begging for scraps to feed herself and her brother.

I won’t do that again. I won’t watch another loved one die before my eyes. There must be some remedy I can try. Dear God, won’t you help me?

***

Edward Gillet, Baron Rodney stumbled into the tavern, deep in his cups and yet not deep enough to forget the news that had made him start reaching for the nearest bottle.

It can’t be.

Three hours later, and he still could not believe it. He’d loved Leonora de Havilland since they were children. He could not imagine spending the rest of his life without her. He’d thought she felt the same.

So why is she engaged to the Duke of Grafton?

He had to assume that her father had forced her hand. There could be no other explanation.

“Don’t you worry, Leonora, I will save you,” he slurred as he dropped into a seat, raising his hand for the serving girl to bring him a drink. As she walked towards him, hips swaying with unconscious grace and blatant voluptuousness, he found himself caught up in appreciation of her wiles. His eyes traveled upward, taking in her tightly cinched waist that then blossomed into two pillowy soft cushions that looked quite conducive to laying one’s head. The creamy expanse of her cleavage seemed unmarred by any blemishes, quite unusual for a demi-rep.

I would wager that Grafton would not say no to her substantial temptations.

The woman cleared her throat rather loudly and he lifted his gaze, realizing that he’d been staring rather rudely at her breasts. His eyebrows quirked in some surprise as he took in her heart-shaped face. Her body was compelling, but her face, complete with full lips and dark, seductive eyes, was certainly stunning.

“What is a beautiful woman such as yourself doing working in this squalor when you could be living in comfort?” he blurted unintentionally.

She blinked at him, not looking surprised, but rather disappointed. “I do not make my fortune on my back, thank you very much. Here is your ale.” She placed the tankard down with some force, so much so that a little of the liquid flew up and landed on his hand, which shot out to capture her arm.

“Wait.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply…” he trailed off, realizing he was about to utter a lie. He absolutely had meant to imply. “Forgive me, I meant nothing untoward.”

She twisted her arm out of his. “That’s quite alright.” She marched away, every step imbued with anger. He blinked a few times, watching her leave with regret. “I’m sorry…”

He put his elbows on the table like the commonest plebeian, his mind mulling blearily over his encounter. He was not usually that clumsy with women, but he could forgive himself because he wasn’t usually this miserable.

Oh, Leonora…what could you possibly have been thinking?

He grabbed the tankard of ale and downed it. He’d been around the Ton long enough to know what kind of reputation the Duke of Grafton had.  He was quite the bounder, frequenting James Street quite often, as well as it’s more wanton neighbor, King’s Street.

Not that Edward had first-hand knowledge of this; the Duke of Grafton hardly spared him a glance, let alone socialized with him. Were the Duke to grace him—a mere baron—with his presence, it would have to be a matter of singular urgency. Perhaps if he lost his cravat and needed a quick replacement he might demand that Edward surrender his. He’d seen the Duke do just that to other men at their club.

Not that Edward would surrender his cravat. He hadn’t put in all those hours at the Pugilist Society to allow himself to be pushed around by anyone—duke or not. He frowned, taking another drink as he thought morosely of Grafton pushing Leonora around. Granted, she would be a duchess with a substantial fortune to her name, but she could never be happy with him—he was sure of it.

I must save her!

He looked up to see the beautiful server putting down a bottle at the next table along with several glasses. Her nose was turned up as she subtly and skillfully ignored one of the men who was trying to get her to sit in his lap. Very deftly, as if quite accustomed to it, she twisted out of his grasp and swayed away. Edward shook his head, impressed by her presence of mind. There was more to this girl than met the eye.

She does not belong in this place.

***

Margaret sighed as she put down her tray, slipping off her cap so that she could re-knot her hair. It kept slipping out of its ties and falling in a black curtain about her face. In addition to obscuring her vision, it was just another thing that an ill-mannered gentleman could grab onto in an attempt to bend her to his will.

She would not have it.

She was so very tired of this place. If it were not for her brother, she might have left long ago, settled herself on a quiet street corner, and waited for death. She looked to the corner where the cook let Oscar huddle as he played with the stick figures he’d whittled himself. Margaret was quite proud of his talent and was already thinking that they might sell some in the market once he got older and his skill was more developed. It would give her a respite from this place, and maybe she could find other things to sell.

Oscar doubled over, sounding as though he was choking as he hacked and coughed, his thin shoulders shaking. Margaret’s shoulders dropped and she closed her eyes in despair.

Please don’t take him away from me.

She didn’t even know who she was begging; she felt that any higher power had abandoned them long ago.

She walked up to the cook. “Ma’am, may I have some hot water for my brother to drink?”

Mrs. Gendry looked up at her, a frown marring her forehead. She inclined her chin towards the cauldron of boiling water that was used to clean the dishes, and Margaret took that as permission. Grabbing a cup, she filled it and then walked to Oscar. Crouching in front of him, she held out the cup. “Here, drink this. Be careful, it’s hot.”

Oscar nodded, taking the cup tentatively and sipping slowly.

Margaret nodded. “Good boy.”

“Old Tom for the gentleman in the corner!” the publican called and Margaret quickly got to her feet. She took the tray of gin and made her way back out into the public room. Her eyes passed over the room, realizing that the ‘gentleman in the corner’ was the same who had asked her what she was doing here.

She had first spotted him as he’d made his unsteady way to a seat, and had felt sorry for him. His shoulders had drooped and he was hunched over as if he was dealing with a heavy burden. She had gone up to him, meaning to be kind and perhaps make him smile. But as soon as he’d opened his mouth and proved himself no better than all the other gentlemen who frequented the tavern, her pity had turned to inexplicable, blinding anger and disappointment.

When she returned with his drink, she merely slammed it on the table and tried to flounce it away. However, it was not surprising that he detained her by slipping his cool fingers around her wrist.

“Let me go, sir,” she said with as much firmness as possible, willing her voice not to shake. She could feel every one of his fingers on her hands, however, and it was unsettling to her spirit.

“I will. Forgive me, I do not wish to cut up your peace. I simply have a question.”

Margaret blinked at him, already anticipating what he would say. She waited in silence for him to prove her right.

“Would you like to leave this place forever?”

And there it is.

She pulled at her hand, which was still trapped in his. “Not at any price, sir. I will not sacrifice my dignity or my virtue for any man.”

He huffed in annoyance. “You misunderstand me. I do not offer you carte blanche or any such arrangement. I mean to give you a job.”

Both her eyebrows rose in disbelief. “A job? As what? Your mistress?”

“Oh no.” He sighed, casting his eyes about. “It is difficult to explain.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He growled in his throat. “Would you stop thinking the worst of me for five minutes?”

“Let me go then.”

To her surprise, he let go of her wrist, his large hand returning to his knee. He was a big man, and she was relieved that he let her go without much fuss. There was no way that she could have fought him if he insisted on holding onto her. “There you go. Now you’re free. So will you listen?”

She placed both hands on her tray, inclined her head to the side, and indicated that he should continue. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes before fixing his dark gaze on her again. “Alright, this may sound slightly beyond the pale, but let the records show that I wish you to do no more than compromise his position. That is all. You need not do a thing more.”

Margaret frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The dark-haired man pointed to the other chair. “Won’t you sit down and let me explain?”

Margaret shook her head. “I cannot. I’m working.”

“Alright then…” he cast his eyes about, biting his lip as he thought, “what about if we meet after you are finished here?”

“I cannot. I have to take my brother home.”

He sighed in exasperation. “What if I take you home in my carriage?”

“It would not be a good idea. I live in Devil’s Acre. You would be robbed of everything you own—including your carriage—should you set foot there.”

He pursed his lips. “In that case, would you consent to me hosting you for the night in my abode at St. John’s Wood? No one will see you there and you’re welcome to use it as long as you like, with no interference from me.”

She frowned. “Why can you not just tell me now?”

“It is difficult to explain. You have my word as a gentleman that neither you nor your brother will come to any harm. I keep a cottage there in case I do not wish to make the journey to my manor. I assure you, you will be safe and no one will disturb you there.”

Margaret looked him over thoughtfully. What he was offering was exactly her idea of heaven. A roof over her head, a warm place for her brother to lay his head. It sounded too good to be true, and she could not help feeling like it was a trap.

She studied the man from head to toe; the cut of his jib spoke of quality and riches. His impossibly wide shoulders said he did not spend all his time on sedentary tasks. The size of his hands was alternately frightful and compelling. His dark eyes looked into hers as if he could see into her soul. She had to blink a few times to stop herself from shivering as she met his gaze. Nothing and everything about him rang alarm bells in her mind. He looked like a man used to getting what he wanted—without having to take it by force. She sighed, her eyes sliding to the hidden corner where her brother sat hunched over, coughing his lungs out.

He looks honest enough, and his house is likely warmer than the hovel we live in. At least Oscar will sleep warm tonight.

Hoping she wouldn’t regret it, she agreed that she and her brother would consent to be his guests for the night.

The strange man nodded, his shoulders sagging as if with relief. “I thank you.”

She nodded and went back to her duties. She half expected that he would get tired of waiting and slip away, but he sat, sipping at his Blue Ruin with studied slowness, watching her in a surreptitious way. Throughout the night, she noticed his eyes would dart to her and then away. Considering she could feel his eyes on her like a brand, he wasn’t as discreet as he thought he was.

Once her shift was over and she had finished wiping down the tables, she went over to collect Oscar in the kitchen. Bending over him, she whispered in his ear, “Now we’re going to a different place to sleep tonight. I need you to behave yourself until we are alone. Do not speak. Do not ask questions. Can you do that?”

Oscar nodded, his eyes wide and full of questions.

They walked up to the man. “We are ready now,” Margaret said.

 

 

Chapter Two

Edward sought the right words to ask the skittish chit to do what he wanted without scaring her and failed to find them. They rode to his cottage in St. John’s Wood in silence. The only sound in the carriage was the boy’s hacking cough, which seemed to be quite bad. Edward gave him a sidelong glance, his mind churning with ideas. Judging by how closely she held the boy, he surmised that she was worried about him. Edward couldn’t blame her—the lad sounded quite ill.

He would ask his housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips, to inspect the boy’s chest and find something that might help. He might even offer to fetch a physician to look over the boy.

That might be worth her cooperation.

He relaxed back into his seat, satisfied that he had a plan. The carriage came to a stop at the door and he stepped down, turning to help Margaret and her brother out of the carriage. The driver would wait for him and take him home once he was done. Edward directed them to precede him to the front door, not missing how they looked around in fear.

He gestured towards the cottage’s parlor. “Please, have a seat while I see what refreshment I have on hand.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “No no, I can do it. Just show me where…”

He opened his mouth and then realized that he did not know her name. “Forgive me, I did not introduce myself. I am Edward Gillet, Baron Rodney, at your service.” He gave her a very proper bow.

“Er, I’m Margaret Russell, this is my brother Oscar.” She stammered a bit over the words, as if unsure if she was doing it correctly, and then gave an awkward curtsey.

He smiled and nodded. “That’s a good start.”

Her eyebrows wiggled in confusion. “I’m sorry, what is a good start?”

“The curtsey.” He took her by the elbow and steered her towards the parlor. “You will have to learn to do it properly if we are to succeed in this endeavor, but at least you have the rudiments.”

“I do not understand.” Her elbow was sharp and bony in his hand and he wondered if she had eaten any dinner yet. He seated her on his red crushed-velvet armchair, her brother sinking to the floor beside her on his imported rug.

“Please, just relax here. I do believe I have some wine, cakes, and fruit.”

He crossed to the fireplace to coax the flames to life and place two candelabras on the tables for additional light. Edward noted that while Margaret sat stiffly, her brother was less wary, looking around curiously at everything as he leaned back against the seat. He was clearly tired and should have been abed long ago. Edward imagined that Margaret had no one to leave him with when she was working.

The boy was rather gaunt, his dark hair lying limp against his face and far too long for a child his age. His clothes were patched and old, but as well-kept as needle and thread could manage. Edward suspected that his welfare was the key to her agreeing with his plan.

She sat hunched in on herself, looking just a little intimidated by her surroundings. He was quite proud of the room. He’d decorated it to suit his tastes and only his—it was his space. The walls were lined with blue and gold silk wallpaper, brightening the room without feminizing it. The plush soft leather settees were dark brown and gave off a good contrast while the hand-woven Turkish rug rounded out the room nicely. The entire room was bathed in soft firelight, softening Margaret’s features and giving her brother’s face a healthy cast.

He could see the boy surrendering slowly to the arms of Morpheus and decided to wait until the boy was asleep before making his proposal.

He went to fetch what food he had on hand and returned with a tray piled high with cakes, fruit, a decanter of brandy for himself, and a hot toddy for the girl and her brother. Oscar was now wide-awake and staring at the array of choices in wonder.

“Is all this for us?” he piped up, his very first words.

Edward quirked an eyebrow. “Of course it is. Tuck in. Eat as much as you want.”

Oscar looked extremely skeptical at Edward’s words but reached slowly for a honey cake, his eyes still on Edward. When the Baron made no move to stop him, Oscar snatched it up and stuffed it quickly into his mouth. Margaret was far subtler, picking up a piece and eating it fast, but not blatantly so.

Edward wondered when they’d last had a good meal but pushed the thought away as rather too depressing in his present mood. Instead, he smiled, pushing the tray closer to them.

“M-may I have another?” Oscar was staring warily at him, hand half-outstretched even as he asked.

“Of course.”

The boy snatched another cake, biting into it with relish.

“Have a drink as well. It will warm you right up.”

“Oh, it’s quite warm in here.” Oscar nodded, nevertheless picking the cup up carefully and taking a sip. He choked a bit. “What is this?”

“Have you not had chocolate before?” Edward had added some into the boy’s drink to sweeten it.

He shook his head vigorously before burying his head in the cup. Edward hoped it had cooled enough not to burn his tongue. His eyes flicked to Margaret, who was watching her brother with sad eyes, her cake gone.

“Won’t you have an apple, Miss Russell?”

She turned to give him a sharp look at that. “I’m just Margaret,” she said.

“Not if you agree to my proposal, you’re not.”

Her eyebrow quirked. “And what proposal is that?”

He gave Oscar a pointed look before leaning back, his hands flat on the arms of the chair. “All in good time.”

***

Watching Oscar stuff himself with food, Margaret could not even be annoyed with the Baron for his evasiveness. But she worried about what she would have to do to pay him back for all this. Whatever he meant her to do, it must be quite horrible. She put down her cup of cocoa.

“Is there somewhere my brother can lay down for the night?”

Oscar whipped his head around to give her a betrayed look, his mouth open and lined with crumbs.

“Of course. Just down the hall is a bedchamber. I’m afraid you’ll have to share the bed, but I daresay it’s big enough for both of you.”

He got to his feet. “Oscar, please do follow me.”

Oscar met Margaret’s gaze, his own wide and filled with wonder. He had no sense of danger in this place, which was relieving—but also worrying. “Go with him, I shall join you shortly.” She put some emphasis on the latter part, chiefly for the Baron’s benefit. Oscar stood up, snatching up one more cake before he followed the Baron from the room. She waited, tapping her fingers, until the Baron returned and took his seat opposite her.

“Alright then, we’re alone. Now tell me what I have to do in this ‘job’.”

The Baron took a deep breath, his eyes darting hither and thither as if trying to think how to tell her. She wondered if perhaps he was some sort of cannibal.

Does he mean to eat me?

He had said it wasn’t some carte blanche arrangement. She could cook and clean but she doubted that was what he needed her for. There were far too many people more qualified than her to work in a nobleman’s kitchen.

“There is a certain…gentleman,” the Baron began before he stopped, blinking furiously as he looked into the fire, “that I would like you to seduce.”

Margaret shot to her feet, words of recrimination already on her lips. The Baron calmly held up a hand. “Hear me out.”

Slowly, she sat back down, glaring at him. “When I say ‘seduce,’ I do not mean that you need to compromise yourself in any way. A mere kiss will do.”

Again, she opened her mouth but he held up his finger. “In return,” he put in quickly, “I will turn you into a lady. I will purchase everything you require to look like one, allow you to live under my roof, and I shall have a physician by to see to your brother’s cough.”

Margaret blinked, stared at him, and blinked again. She looked around, relishing the feel of being truly warm for the first time in months—years, perhaps. She hadn’t failed to notice that Oscar’s coughing had reduced significantly once he was somewhere warm and dry. And the Baron had said he would get him treated.

A part of her was still skeptical as to his motives. Surely if all she needed to do was kiss the man, there were plenty of more qualified people who could do that. Why, any bit of muslin standing on a dark street corner was more qualified than she to carry this out. She swallowed, thinking of the cold pallet awaiting them in the hovel they called home.

“When you say you will turn me into a lady, what do you mean by that?”

He took a breath. “Well, you will need a new wardrobe for sure. A few lessons in manners, perhaps some cream to soften your hands and powder to lighten your skin.” He cocked his head to the side. “Although it is remarkably unblemished for one of your class. We might not need to do much with it.”

“Why do it at all? Why not get some other lady who already has all that to kiss this gentleman?” Margaret asked.

“Well…because, frankly, no lady would do it. When I saw you, I knew that you were just the kind of beauty that would turn his head. You do not seem to be aware of it, but you’re quite breathtaking.” His eyes gleamed darkly as he stared at her and she could not help the blush that stole over her face.

Lowering her lashes, she avoided his gaze. “And once I have kissed this man, then what?”

“Well, I shall settle an amount upon you and…” he paused, his finger pointing to the ceiling, “I shall give you this house to live in.”

She raised an eyebrow. “All that, in exchange for a kiss? It does not seem like an equal exchange.”

“To me, the end result is worth anything.” She frowned, hearing the emotion in his voice. There was something more here than she knew. Something personal to the Baron. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a faint cough from down the hall reminding her exactly why she needed to agree to this.

How can I turn this down?

She had never kissed a man, let alone seduced one, but the Baron had not asked if she had experience. He had merely assumed that because she was baseborn, she was one shift away from being a bit of muslin. She wanted to be angry with him, to rail and scold, but she did not have the luxury of refusal.

If I don’t do this, Oscar will die.

She had asked for an answer and this was the one that came.

“You say I do not have to compromise myself, but how will I get this man to kiss me and then get him to stop?”

He leaned forward eagerly. “Well, it’s simple. I shall transform you into a lady. Heaven knows you’re a thing of beauty—in the right clothes, with the right mannerisms, no man will be able to resist you. He will take a liberty or two, but he won’t go too far if he thinks you’re a lady.”

“The right clothes will not make me a lady.”

“No, they will not. We shall have to get you the right name, too. That’s solved easily enough.”

Margaret’s eyebrow quirked. “I do not understand.”

Edward sat back, hand on his chin. “Lady Gabriella will do nicely, I think. She is my cousin and a widow. She resides in the country and seldom comes to Town. Being widowed would also explain the boy. You will have to pass him off as your son.”

Margaret’s frown got deeper. “Slow down, please. I do not follow you. You want me, in addition to seducing an unsuspecting gentleman, to pretend to be someone else?”

“I know, I know. It’s much to take in. Why don’t you go and rest and we can discuss it further in the morning?”

She stared at him with wide eyes. “I have to work in the morning.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. You have only one duty now, and that is learning to be a lady.”

She blinked a few times, extremely skeptical about everything. She did not want to resign her position, just in case this—whatever this was—turned out to be a bunch of nonsense. No doubt the Baron was fairly flush in the pockets, but that did not mean he was serious about this endeavor.

“I…”

He stood up, reaching for her hand and pulling her to her feet. “For now I will ask only one thing of you; that you trust me. Please, go and rest. It’s very late and you’re tired. I shall be back in the morning with breakfast.”

Margaret stared at the man before her, trying to take his measure. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he had had plenty of opportunity this night. Could it be that his strange proposal was sincere—could it truly be that simple?

The only thing Margaret knew for certain was that she was dead on her feet.

She nodded her agreement and the Baron bowed to her.

Let us just see what happens. If worse comes to worst, I can insist that he get me new employment.

“Good night, Miss Russell.”

She turned her head so fast that her cap was dislodged and half her hair hung down over her shoulders. “Goodnight, sir.”

She reached up, trying to straighten her cap as she walked down the corridor. After a moment, she gave it up as a lost cause and snatched the cap off her head, walking until she saw a wooden door at the end of the corridor. Behind her, she heard a door open and close and concluded that the Baron had left.

Reaching for the door, she slipped into the room. There was a single burning candle on the dresser, the light just enough so that she could see her way around. She half expected that Oscar would be waiting anxiously for her, but he was buried under a mountain of blankets, sprawled on the bed, snoring softly. She smiled, watching him sleep for a while before looking around the room in awe. It was bigger than their entire lodgings, the bed a huge four-poster piled high with blankets. There was wood paneling on the walls and huge bay windows, now covered by red velvet curtains. Everything screamed luxury, and Margaret was afraid to touch a single thing.

Shucking off her woolen gown, she climbed into the bed in her shift and settled herself comfortably. Oscar immediately shifted around so that his foot lay on top of her knees and his arm stretched across her face. She smiled, very familiar with his manner of sleeping, seeing as they usually shared a pallet.

She sighed. This is much more comfortable.

She closed her eyes, trying to relax. It was difficult, as her stomach was still twisted with worry and her mind was swirling with confusion. The Baron’s words echoed in her mind as she wondered if she could even pull off his scheme convincingly. She was no lady, had no aspirations to be one, but she wanted this for Oscar—a comfortable warm bed for him to sleep in and plenty of food to eat, as well as medicine for his cough.

But will I be able to pay the price for it?

 

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