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Prologue

Home was not a place, it was a feeling. She felt it with every step. For Miss Isabel Garrett, Lichfield was home. She could never be lost or distressed at Lichfield because she had spent her entire life in its safety. Her father, the Duke of Lichfield, had given Isabel near dominion over every corner and crevice. In her younger years, she often ran about the house. Those were days of discovery, of always uncovering something new at Lichfield like a connecting passageway or mysterious door to new rooms. Before she was four and ten, she had mastered every part of the manor.

Isabel knew the Lichfield Maze best of all. Every part of it had once been her playground. It was in the maze that she stood in her long muslin dress which moved with the soft breeze that blew across. The sun beamed down, warming her skin. She smiled and decided that it was time to leave, for she’d had enough for the day. She was about to begin her walk when a husky voice called out her name.

“Isabel…”

She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there.

“Isabel…” The voice came again.

She whirled in a circle but still, there was no one there. The voice, however, was eerily familiar.

It couldn’t be.

“Isabel, I’m here.” Came the voice again.

Her heart began to thud. The voice was coming from far off but in a direction, she could discern. She moved towards the voice, excitement coursing through her with each step. She wanted to hear the voice call her name again.

“Isabel…” The voice called.

She clenched her fists, grinning. She doubled back on the path she was in and slowly crossed over into the next.

There he was, standing in his full military uniform. His grin was wide, and his green eyes glinted in the gentle spray of sunlight. Standing where he was, his dark hair had an ethereal gloss. Isabel had never seen anyone so handsome. She stood still, her lips stretched out in a smile, just as she said his name.

“Alexander.” Her cheeks turned crimson.

Alexander licked his lips and made his way over to her. Isabel swallowed as he approached. She knew what his touch did to her. She knew how he made her feel. Merely seeing him had sent her in a state of want, unending craving, and a need to please.

When Alexander stopped close to her, she cast her gaze down. Looking into his eyes would make her lose control.

“My beautiful Lady.” Alexander whispered, taking her hand in his. Isabel felt her insides shiver. She wanted him to touch more than her hands.

“Alexander…” she whispered, looking up and, finally, into his eyes. His eyes were even more beautiful as she saw them closer.

He grinned, slipping a hand away from hers so that he could touch her face. When his fingers began to caress her cheek, moving in small circular motions as he stared into her eyes, Isabel was overrun with passion. Alexander must have felt the same way too because he moved her backward until her back was to the wall. He tilted his head and pressed his lips against hers. It was soft and needy, nibbling at her lower lip before finally moving against hers hungrily.

Isabel gave into the kiss faster than she thought. With Alexander’s hand on her face, a torrent of emotions came from within, and she soon became overwhelmed. She needed to express all of it. Surrendering to the moment, she let her hands guide her. They moved to Alexander’s chest and roamed with the intent of making him feel what he made her feel. Isabel moaned when her tongue came into play. Alexander was quite skillful; he knew just how to kiss her so that all she wanted was his tongue all over her body.

It seemed to Isabel that she could not get enough of Alexander. The house was too exposed for the things she wanted to do with him, the things she wanted him to do to her.

Whilst his tongue worked their way with her lips, his hands left her face and went on to press over her clothed breasts, making her gasp. She wished she could rip the dress off so that he could touch her bare breast. She wondered what that would feel like.

Just when Isabel was beginning to slide her hand down to the waistband of Alexander’s breeches, he pulled away from her.

Isabel panted. Her lips felt swollen, her hands itched to touch him, and beneath her dress, her breasts felt cold because his hands over them had kept them warm. However, when Isabel looked at Alexander, her want seemed driven far away.

Alexander gazed at her with cold eyes. His hands were balled into a fist and his jaws were clenched.

“You are not worthy, Isabel.”

Taken aback but at the same time curious, Isabel moved away from the wall and tried to walk towards him, but she was unable to move.

“What are you saying, Alexander?”

“You are not worthy of my love or of anyone’s love. You deserve to be alone, Isabel. Alone!” He screamed.

Isabel felt herself shiver, but not from passion this time. It was from sadness, fear, and guilt. She shook her head. “Alexander, no…”

He ignored her and turned his back to her. Isabel felt tears well up in her eyes as Alexander began to walk away from her. She called out his name. “Alexander!”

Alexander kept walking until he took a turn at the end of the path. Finally, Isabel was able to move, so she ran after him, his name on her lips. “Alexander! Wait!” She was crying now, her tears cascading down her cheeks rapidly. She was unable to bear the pain of seeing him walk away. She wanted him, she loved him. How could she live without him?

“Alexander!” she called, sobbing loudly now. When she arrived at the path where he had walked into, she saw that it was empty. She shook her head and ran towards another one.

Isabel ran around, stumbling from path to path, until she felt lost in the maze. Her heart beat rapidly, her hands shook by her side, and her eyes were full of warm tears. She stopped running when she realized that she did not know her way around anymore. Isabel screamed into the air.

 For the first time in all her life, she felt lost in that maze. Perhaps that was because she was no longer that girl. She was no longer Isabel Garrett. She was now Lady Isabel Maxwell.

*****

“No!” she gasped, waking up from a horrible dream. Lady Isabel looked around. She was not in the Lichfield Maze. She was no longer the girl who had been loved by Alexander Steward.

Isabel combed a hand through her hair. She had not been afflicted by such a nightmare in years. Not since the years, she had been wed to the Viscount, Lord Maxwell. Why was she having them again now, when Lord Maxwell was dead and buried. She sat up and glanced around her bed-chamber. It was a large room and at that moment emphasized the fact that she was so alone, that she had been alone for years now.

That dream, she realized, was a reminder of the horrid emotion she had put Alexander through. It was a reminder of the abiding hurt she felt after she gave up on their love and wedded Lord Maxwell instead.

She had loved Alexander Steward, a man who bore no title. There was a time he had dominated her dreams and brought her only joy when he filled them. She had dreamt of being wed to him and being happy forever. But alas, his lack of title had meant her father could never approve of the match. He forbade their courtship and stamped out any chance that it could ever blossom into marriage. That, however, did not stop Alexander’s zeal, Isabel recalled. It was Alexander’s will that strengthened her to fight for what she wanted. They made plans to elope and start a life together, far away from Richmond. She had been thrilled about the plan. A life alone with Alexander was something she had wanted.

But it never came to be. Like much of Isabel’s life, tragedy seemed to fall on the precipice of triumph. She had been unable to meet Alexander as planned and that had proved to be the end of it. She never saw him again after that. She had heard the news about him joining the army sometime thereafter, but only silence after that. Seven years had passed since she had last seen him and yet she had never been able to forget; not his smile nor his touch on her cheek.

Isabel shook her head, remastering herself. Lord Maxwell, her late husband, had left her a generous portion of wealth and she no longer wanted for any material thing. As terrible as it was to think it, that was the one thing she had been grateful for in life; that Lord Maxwell was no more and that his tyranny in her life was over. He had treated her with nothing but malice and contempt; every word he spoke was to abuse, belittle, or torment her. Any word he spoke to her had been said with a tone and timbre that served only to remind her that she was beneath him. His death meant that she no longer had to walk around with fear of what he might say next, but the melancholic memories of what he had put her though lingered in her mind, haunting her.

Love had abandoned her twice. Now she was free of men, both those that professed to love only to leave, and those that refused to show it, only to die. She was determined to keep her freedom and be independent.

 

Chapter One

 

They say death comes but once, but for Alexander Steward, it seemed as though it came in waves. His father, his mother, his comrades at war, and now his Great Uncle… Alexander glanced over the letter once more that had brought him that most horrible report. The news that his Great Uncle had passed had shocked him and he was still reeling from it.

The last time he had seen the old man was after a short visit from service before he went back to the battlefield to defend his country. His Great Uncle had been vibrant, full of life, and above all, welcoming. Had he been an actor, he was the sort of man to play a king or a great warrior. He was a strong, timeless figure, both straight-backed and stoic. For his Great Uncle, Alexander had always felt nothing but the utmost pride. How was he to have expected that the last time he saw his Great Uncle would be the very last time forever?

He had received the letter informing him of his Great Uncle’s passing from his friend Michael Follet, who was also their family solicitor. He had readied himself immediately and made for London as fast as he could.

Now, as the carriage rocked back and forth over the cobblestoned streets, he was approaching Michael Follet’s home to hear word on their family affairs.

Alexander hated London. As he glanced out of his carriage window at the lantern-brightened streets, the city seemed to sneer at him. He was what he was. There was no walking away from that. In the time since he had last passed those streets, he had gone to war and fought for his country to great merit. When one watched the life leave a man, one changes forever and the streets seemed not quite so bright as they had once been to him. This was not a city for men like him, for commoners. No man was truly welcomed in London lest he was in possession of a good fortune. And Alexander was certainly not in possession of any fortune, let alone a good one.

The carriage driver drew rein.

“We are here already?” Alexander asked.

“Yes, we are, Sir.”

Alexander drew in breath and alighted from the carriage. Michael Follet’s house was modest, as far as London society was concerned, but Alexander had a tremendous respect for men who earned their money. Michael Follet was not a nobleman by birth, but he had worked hard to raise himself into their stewardship, and was now welcomed and accepted in those circles when it came to the conduct of legal affairs. Under any other circumstances, Alexander would have been glad to see him again, but this was different. This was death. Bereavement. There could be no gladness tonight.

He knocked the door firmly and a light appeared in the ground floor window. Soon enough, Michael appeared in the doorway with a sheepish smile.

“My dearest Alexander, it is a pleasure to see you,” Michael said, extending his hand.

Alexander clasped his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you, too. I wish it had been in happier circumstances.”

“Indeed,” whispered Michael, ushering him in. “I know how much this hurts you, Alex, and I am truly sorry.”

Alexander pulled his hand through his hair and said nothing. Michael led him into his study and offered him a seat.

“No, thank you,” Alexander muttered. He couldn’t sit at that moment. His heart was beating too fast, and the room seemed too small around him. It was impossible to believe that all this was true, that his Great Uncle had truly died. When Alexander lost his father, it had been his Great Uncle, Lord John Steward, Earl of Carter, who had taken him in and treated him like a son. Were it not for the kindness and generosity of his Great Uncle he would almost certainly have numbered amongst the homeless and hungry in those miserable years after he became an orphan. That Alexander was this man standing in London today was all because his Great Uncle had chosen to treat him like a son and not a stranger. He would never be able to repay that measure of great kindness.

“How was your time in His Majesty’s Service?” Michael asked.

Alexander knew that Michael meant no harm in it. It was just an attempt at small talk, but Alexander still found it difficult to speak of the war, of all the things he had seen in trying to survive it.

He glanced down at Michael, meeting his eye. “I have fought in two campaigns. In seven years, I saw the bloody business of every kind and order. We fought in the sleet and the snow and the rain. We saw men die and sometimes did great violence ourselves, and that’s not near the worst of it. I’ve run away in fear, I’ve run forwards in courage. I did things that I would never have imagined I could do if I hadn’t ever put on an officer’s uniform and marched out from my barracks. I suppose to put it plainly, my dear Michael, my time in His Majesty’s Service was eventful.”

Michael stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Evidently,” he said at last. “I suppose we should get on to the matter at hand.”

Alexander nodded. “I suppose so.”

Michael shuffled some papers on his deck and glanced up at Alexander. “You really should sit. There is quite a lot that we ought to discuss, ” said Michael, staring at Alex with what seemed like pity. “Please.”

Alex sighed and did as was requested, sinking into a velvet cushioned chaise lounge.

Michael gave a grateful nod. “As you know, your Great Uncle only left behind his daughter and granddaughters.”

Alexander nodded. “Emily and her dear children. Are they well?”

Michael smiled and nodded. “They are all very well and are being suitably accounted for.”

His cousin Emily had always been like a kind older sister to him, and she treated him like the brother she never had. She had not been pleased to hear that Alexander had chosen to join the armed forces, and she had not understood then why he had to go. Why he had to leave London.

Alexander wondered why Emily wasn’t here. Surely, she ought to have had some part to play in handling her father’s affairs.

He fixed Michael with a quizzical look, waiting for what he had to say next.

“Well, Alexander, after rigorous searching and confirmation, it has been discovered that you are the late Lord Carter’s closest male relative and as such it is customary that you become the next Earl of Carter.”

Alexander recoiled back as though Michael’s words had been a punch. Stunned would have been quite the understatement for what he felt when that news reached his ears. He had never even considered who might succeed his Great Uncle as the Earl of Carter, he was sure there were others in line before him. He had always despised the nobility and everything that had to do with it, his Great Uncle had been the only exception in this. Alexander had felt keenly the greatest indignity of his life when the woman he loved, on account of her being from a noble family, had rejected his offer of marriage and married a nobleman instead. It was a rejection that had sent his life into an utter spiral.

“Michael, this is absurd. I know nothing about the Earldom. Choosing me as a replacement for my Great Uncle would only bring the estate down. I have no education on the affairs of nobility. All I know is how to defend England. I know nothing about keeping records and a manor and all that comes with such a high position.”

Michael sighed, leaned back on his chair, and rubbed his temple. Alexander stared at him intently, hoping that what he had to say next would be in support of what he had just said.

“Alex, I understand your sentiment, believe me. However, in this matter, my hands are inextricably tied. You are the only living male relative and so the only one to succeed your Great Uncle and it should bear mentioning that I… I am certain of your capabilities as both a man and a leader. Regardless, there’s no possible way you could run down the Earldom”

Alex straightened and quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Michael cleared his throat but said nothing.

Alexander leaned forward. “What situation is the Estate in? ”

Michael shrugged, parted his lips, but no words came out.

Alex tilted his head. “Speak to me, Michael.”

Michael let out a heavy breath. “Well,” he began, leaning forward absentmindedly so that his elbows settled on the mahogany table. “Your Great Uncle had quite the gambling habit.”

“I never knew of it!”

“As you know, after you last saw him, his wife passed. He was all alone, and it did not take long before his grief started to settle in him. He lost his way somehow. Before I knew anything about it, he had turned to gambling.” Michael stared into Alexander’s eyes as he delivered the last blow. “The Earl has left the Estate nearly bankrupt, Alex. With the standing debts he left behind, it is only a matter of time before the Estate falls.  I had suggested that a marriage to a wealthy noblewoman would save the Estate, and, if she was young, he might have got an heir, but your Great Uncle refused to re-marry. He said it would be a dishonor to his late wife. There was really no other solution, and this broke his heart. He never forgave himself leading up until the moment of his death.”

That information was a lot for Alexander to take in. He had seen the love that his Great Uncle bore for his wife. An enchanted love that filled their home with warmth and laughter that never went away. It must have crushed his Great Uncle to lose her. A wave of guilt settled on Alexander.

“I should have been there for him,” he whispered.

Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. “You cannot blame yourself. You weren’t to know what he was going through. You had your own life to live.”

Alexander shook his hand away and buried his face in his hands. He rose to his feet, feeling quite overwhelmed by the news. What Michael was trying to say was that his Great Uncle had died feeling ashamed of what he had done. He had been heavy hearted in his last days. The revelation did not sit well with Alexander. He could never forget the flourishing days of the Estate and how his Great Uncle had swelled with pride. It pained him to realize that his Great Uncle had not died a happy man, having left his legacy in shreds before his departure from this world.

“He would have wanted his Estate saved” Alexander whispered.

Michael nodded. “Indeed.”

 

Chapter Two

 

Alexander felt torn, but one thing he was certain of was how much he wanted to redeem his Great Uncle’s legacy, and, more importantly, keep the Estate in the family line.

Alexander felt a deep wave of duty to his late Great Uncle. He might not have understood anything about the ways of the nobility, but if there was something he did understand, it was duty. He had never been able to appreciate his Great Uncle for what he had done in his life. Perhaps this was the only way. The only problem now was how.

He turned to his friend and placed his palms on the table. “If I am to accept this, Michael, I ought to know how to set everything right. My lack of knowledge concerning these affairs might be a setback.”

A grin crossed his friend’s face. “Does this mean that you accept the Earldom?”

Alexander gave his friend a pointed look. “Mayhap.”

Michael raised both his hands midair. “Your affirmation is all that is needed before we discuss a way forwards.”

“You make this sound as though it shall be easy to redeem an entire estate. ”

“It shan’t be quite easy, to be frank.” Michael shook his head. “All I can offer is the same solution I had offered your Great Uncle, my friend. ”

“Pray tell?”

“To be wed. You must seek a bride with a sizeable dowry.”

“What?” Alexander exclaimed, falling back into his seat. “Is that the only way?”

“I am afraid so… with the estate, with the situation it is in, no one would want to invest in any business connected to it. But a marriage to a wealthy and titled Lady would bring back the glory and economy of the Earldom, and that, my friend, should not be too difficult for you. You would only have to attend the prerequisite balls and be on the lookout for just the right lady. There are a lot of spinsters and maidens in London. Even Dowagers, all you have to do is put yourself out there.”

Now Alexander saw how absurd the entire situation was. He let out a short laugh. There was certainly no way he would be wed. He wanted nothing at all to do with love or marriage. He had sworn off that for seven whole years and he was not about to break that promise. The last time he had allowed himself to feel, he had been hurt and terribly so.

Alexander’s mind drifted back to Isabel Garrett, the only woman he had ever loved. With her, he had dared to dream and imagined a future where love and laughter would be things to perpetually share. That was a long time ago and she had crushed those dreams for good. Despite all that he had been through, Alexander had suffered no greater pain than the sting of her rejection, the demise of their love. Even when he had lost his parents, the pain had not been quite so severe. The pain that love brought was soul wrenching. He never wanted to relive such again.

“There has to be another way.” Alexander countered.

“You have nothing to lose here, Alexander. I do not see what the problem is.” Michael said.

Alexander shook his head. “I do not wish to be wed. Love is the last thing on my mind. And I believe that… a business deal would be more beneficial on the long run.”

Michael scoffed. “There is no doubt about that, Alexander. However, getting anyone to invest in a nearly fallen estate shall be difficult. As I said earlier.”

Alexander respected that Michael was only making his suggestions based on his expertise; however, he strongly believed that something other than being wed could be done. He truly would have not taken up the mantle of running the Estate had he not felt greatly indebted to his Great Uncle and although he held no regret that he had accepted the Earldom, he felt that there would be hurdles along the way and it had already begun.

“Take some time to think things through, Alex. Perhaps it would aid you to come to terms with what should be done.”

A curt nod was the only response Alex had to offer at that point in time. He had to go home and think things through. Alexander rose from his seat and stuck out his right hand. Michael stood up and clapped his hand against it.

“For what it is worth, my friend, I am glad that you have returned. Your return has given me hope that Carter Manor can be restored before it falls to a place of no return.” Michael said.

“I am indeed pleased to be back, Michael. But I had never predicted that my return would be under these circumstances.”

“I understand.” Michael nodded.

“I shall take my time to think about a way out of this mess. I do have a lot to learn if I wish to save the estate and I will need you for that.” Alexander said seriously.

Michael nodded vigorously. “You must know that you can come to me anytime. My doors are open for you, my friend, never forget that.”

With one last nod, Alex turned and made his way out of the study.

“Where will you be staying?” Michael asked.

“There is a boarding house in Cheapside, they should have a bed for me,” Alexander replied.

Michael shook his head. “Nonsense. You’re an Earl now. I will have a carriage brought round. You are going to Carter Manor.”

*****

As his carriage rode towards Carter Manor, Alexander kept replaying the conversation he had with Michael in his head. He had tried and failed to figure a way out of this unconscionable predicament. It felt as though Michael had been right; there was no other hope of saving the Earldom but to make an advantageous marriage.

The carriage came at last to Carter Manor and Alexander glanced out of the window. It was plain to see that the manor had deteriorated somewhat. The lawns were overgrown and the fountain at the center of the carriageway had run dry. Vines and other creeping greenery were beginning to make their steady climb up the windows.

He approached the door and knocked firmly. The man who answered had a round, kindly face, with hair greying at the edges and a moustache plucked into a curl.

“Mr. Wilson,” Alexander exclaimed.

Mr. Wilson bowed. “Alex-” He caught himself and covered his mouth. “I suppose I must call you Lord Carter now.”

Alexander smiled. “So Michael has told you?”

“I was most pleased to hear it, my Lord.”

Alexander laughed. “Please don’t call me that, at least not when we are in private.”

Mr. Wilson frowned. “You must know that I do not drop my manners, Lord Carter. You are Lord Carter now and long may that continue.”

Alexander shook his head with a wry grin. The house was not much different from the last time he had been there except for the fact that it seemed much smaller.

“I had learnt you would be arriving today my Lord and took the liberty of gathering some things for supper. Shall you be taking your supper now, my Lord?”

Alexander nodded, scratching his neck. “That would be lovely, Mr. Wilson, thank you.”

Mr. Wilson bowed. “I trust you know your way around, my Lord?”

“I do,” said Alexander.

With that, Mr. Wilson scurried off to the kitchen.

Alex made for the study and along the way saw a large painting that depicted his Great Uncle on a large horse. It made him smile to see his Great Uncle portrayed with such veneration. He moved through the corridor and came at last to the study. He sank into the desk chair and stared down at the documents scattered across the table. His Great Uncle’s cursive was perfect until the very end, no matter how much he had been battered by gambling and drink. That made Alexander smile. Carter Manor had always been a great home but now it was his home. He owned it. It felt incredibly strange.

Before long, Mr. Wilson reappeared to inform him that his supper was ready, and he dined on succulent beef with roasted potatoes. When all was done, he, at last, made his way to his bed-chamber, thinking that a nap would help to ease and focus his thoughts. It turned out to be quite the opposite. Once alone, his mind began a full-scale assault. The past dominated his mind then, more than it had ever in the past. It seemed the requirement that he be wed made him think of his heartbreak even more.

Pressing his lips in a thin line, he remembered the letter he had received from Isabel that had ruined him. He had never brought himself to destroy the letter and he did not know why. But he had also not read it in years. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the large bundle of letters he had received over the years from Isabel. The first and only opened letter amongst the bunch stared back at him with its haunted cursive. He almost always kept that first letter on his person as a reminder. He began to read.

 

Dear Alexander,

I understand that you had hoped for a future between us; however, that is no longer possible. I cannot jeopardize my future for a foolish love that shall have no meaning in years to come. My father has found me a proper suitor and I shall be wed soon. I wish you well in your future endeavors.

Truly, Isabel.

 

Alexander crumpled the paper and tossed the letter into the drawer. Isabel had sounded so cold in that letter that it made him feel as though she were a stranger. The pain had held him back for too long. Why did he have to hold himself back when she moved on? When she was happy? Why did he, who had done nothing wrong, have to suffer emotionally for her sake?

He shook his head and whispered a vicious, “No.” He needed to move on. One thing Isabel had written in that letter that clung to him. She had said she would not jeopardize her future for a foolish love. He, too, would not jeopardize his future for a past that no longer bore meaning to him.

He decided there and then that he would do what needed to be done. He did not have to invest emotionally in anyone. All he needed was a marriage of convenience and that was what he was going to seek. Nothing would hold him back from saving his Earldom.

 

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PROLOGUE

So much of courtship is unspoken. The lingering glance. The slow rise of colour in the cheeks. The knowing twist to the lips that rests somewhere between a smile and a laugh. Levi had learned the language of courtship. He could almost tell when a woman wanted him from the tone and timbre of her voice. From the strength of her perfume.

As Levi stepped down from his carriage and strolled through the doors of the opera house, he could tell. He was wanted. Their eyes fell on him like hyenas on a choice cut of meat. Whispers rose like the buzz of bees when the hive is disturbed. He could guess what they were saying or some semblance of it. There goes Viscount Gatton, son of the Earl of Exeter. Almost thirty and still not married because he can’t stop being a rake. He repressed a sigh, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his neck from one side to the other until he heard a soft, satisfying click.

The opera house was packed to the rafters. The audience consisted largely of the landed gentry, but it was not unusual to find the odd high noble watching the proceedings from a balcony in one of the private boxes. Tonight, he would be doing just that. Opera was his escape route, his reprieve from the choking press of high society. A place where he needed not to be, but only to feel and listen.

His footman, Jasper had managed to reserve the royal box at Levi’s behest.

Turning his back to the inquisitive glances around the room, Levi ascended to the royal box.

“My Lord,” Jasper said with a full bow. He parted the dark curtain to the royal box for Levi to walk through.

Levi gave a subtle bow in return. “Thank you, Jasper.”

The box was carpeted with crushed red velvet, with plush red upholstered seats arranged at the perfect angle to get an incomparable view of the stage. Light in the box was provided from a four-tiered crystal chandelier which coruscated with all the soft brilliance of a hearth fire.

Levi took in a deep breath. It would do for the night.

He called out to Jasper, and the young footman stuck his head in through the curtain. “My Lord?”

“My good friend Lord Turnbull will be joining me soon. Please show him up when he arrives.”

“Yes, my Lord. Will you need refreshments?”

Levi smirked. “Well, you know Lord Turnbull.”

Jasper nodded. “I will arrange for their finest brandy, my Lord.”

Levi took a seat and turned his eyes to the empty stage. It had been a few weeks since he had been back at the opera, and he was eager to see what the night’s performance had to offer. It was a performance of the pastiche opera, “Love in a Village,” a ballad opera with three acts and over forty musical numbers. Levi had it on good account that it told the story of the heroine Rosetta, a woman fearful of her impending marriage to a man she has never met who runs away from home and acquires a position as a chambermaid. The lead role of Rosetta would require a truly gifted coloratura soprano.

A few moments later, Jasper parted the curtain to admit Lord Turnbull into the box. He was flanked on either side by two young ladies and their older chaperone.

“Levi, my good friend,” said Lord Turnbull, “allow me to introduce to you Lady Elizabeth Thurnlock and her sister Lady Natalie Thurnlock.”

The two ladies curtseyed perfectly.

Their chaperone wore a hard, inexpressive stare. She had a knowing suspicious look about her eyes and a face that said, “try me.” The perfect chaperone for two young ladies around a famously unmarried rake. Levi always felt that this particular aspect of his reputation had been unearned, the product of concentrated hearsay. He was not a rake. Any woman who took to his bed knew she was toying with a broken thing. They came for discreet adventure, and he delivered on that promise – a mutually beneficial arrangement at the best of times. He could not be blamed for those small few who grew in frustration as they realised that he was beyond their mending. That he was not theirs to keep. Only his friend Edward knew the truth about him. Everyone else satisfied themselves with a vague approximation of it.

He met the chaperone’s eyes. If she wanted to see a rake, he would be the rake. He gave her a well-practiced look. It was a look he kept for when he wanted to set people into a disconcerted haze. To make them remember his status as heir to the earldom of Exeter.

Lord Turnbull frowned, noting the look that passed between Levi and the chaperone. “This is their chaperone for the night, Mrs. Barnaby.”

Levi bowed. “A pleasure, Mrs. Barnaby.”

When he straightened, he gave her his most subtle smile. A smile that always seemed to unsettle the uptight. It worked. The woman sputtered as though meaning to say something, but no real words came out. Levi let the smile linger then turned to the Thurnlock sisters.

They were both stunningly pretty. Lady Elizabeth, who seemed the older of the two, possessed rich brown hair which caught and captured the chandelier light. Her wide, encouraging smile was as good and blatant an invitation to courtship as Levi had ever seen.

Levi bowed politely and kissed her hand. In a feat of inhuman elasticity, her smile widened, and she let her hand dance in his before she drew it back.

He gave a start and turned his glance to the younger of the pair.

Lady Natalie was a near facsimile of her elder sister, except that her hair was straight where her sister had curls. The bridge-wide smile, it seemed, ran in the family.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Levi said.

An awkward silence passed. Clearly, the ladies were expecting more from him. Perhaps even Edward was. Levi knew he had a reputation for being a veteran rake with no small appetite for riotous living, but he hadn’t come for flirtation tonight. Pretty as the Thurnlock sisters were, he had no real desire to do anything but enjoy the opera. That was the problem with high society – you could never tell the difference between genuine admiration and delicate bluster. Theirs was a game of sharp glances and eyelashes and licked lips that grew tiresome to play when you had seen it so many times before.

Being the heir of one of the oldest earldoms in the peerage came with a special sort of loneliness. The sort that allowed you to be surrounded by people but always alone. Never knowing who just wanted to use you like a rung in a ladder. His life was not entirely his own. Levi belonged to the earldom almost as much as their countryside estate. He was expected to preserve the status of the earldom at all costs, even if it meant marrying someone he barely knew whose wealth or landholdings were beneficial to the earldom. The few friends he had only ever managed to accumulate were those who had somehow managed to slip through his father’s careful scrutiny on account of their relative wealth or their proximity. Tonight, he just wanted to relax and forget.

Edward frowned and moved to scupper the silence. “This is a remarkable box, Levi. However were you able to reserve it?”

Levi frowned. Edward knew exactly how. He had joined him at this very box several times in the not-too-distant past. He was trying to stir the pot of conversation. Clearly, he thought Levi should take an interest in one of the lovely sisters. Is everyone in London trying to find me a wife?

Levi shrugged. “Our lucky night, I suppose.”

The sisters giggled in musical unison, and Levi suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Jasper appeared with two servants, a tray of decanters, cut glasses, tea, and butter cakes. Edward wasted no time in offering the Thurnlock sisters a drink which they promptly and politely declined. He didn’t let their rejection slow his step as he held out a glass to Jasper.

“Jasper, please make sure my glass is never empty tonight,” said Lord Turnbull.

Levi laughed. “You’ve given him the busiest job of the night, Edward.”

The ladies chuckled, and Jasper – the utmost professional – suppressed a small smile.

Edward, ever the entertainer, took it in good spirits and threw back his drink in a single gulp. “Your work begins, my good man.”

Levi laughed, also allowing himself a small measure of brandy. The sharp uprush of heat at the first sip made him straighten as he waited impatiently for the show to start.

Just as the awkward silence threatened to return, the bell rang, and silence fell upon the audience like a heavy-set clodhopper.

He took the seat closest to the action and found Edward had arranged for Lady Elizabeth to be by his side. The powdery musk of her perfume caught his attention the way the fox scent catches the hunting hound. Levi almost wished he could tell her that her efforts would be a waste on him. There was no spark between them. He always needed a spark.

The lights dimmed, and as the curtains rose, her knee touched his thigh. Delicately enough to be dismissed as a harmless mistake for those unaccustomed to this game, but for a seasoned seducer, it was the first salvo in a subtle sword dance. It was expertly done and almost enough to get Levi to play the game. Why not? He turned towards her, chin rising as he did. Then he heard a voice.

Soft and sharp, clean and clear. The voice rang out across the theatre, stunning it to total silence. Levi glanced over his shoulder towards the stage. Ladies and gentlemen sat agape, startled by the sheer power of the voice. There was an incredible duality in it – it was both pain and strength, defiance and destruction. Never before had Levi heard a voice that radiated such pure, unpretentious energy. It soared above the instruments and touched something within, transporting him to a forgotten time and stirring up emotions that he had long left for dead. He shook himself, narrowing his eyes to get a look at the singer’s face.

She was – in a single word – unprecedented. Her eyes, even at a distance, captured the light and made it her prisoner. Her silhouette carried every curve to set his heart aflutter. Beautiful, he found, was too common a word for such uncommon beauty. This was something more. Something compelling.

He hissed as though offended by it all, but his heart did not stop hammering away.

Her voice rose, and Levi found that his chest rose with it. Who was this woman? Levi wanted to know. Needed to know. He put his drink aside, tugging his shirt collar to let in some air as a sweet heat ran through him. As her gaze suddenly locked with his, Levi was struck with the realization that he had been staring at her. Their eyes met for a small moment, and Levi became aware of the solid, incontrovertible truth at the bottom of his stomach: he wanted her.

“What a voice,” Lady Elizabeth whispered beside him.

He made a dismissive gesture that he only realized was rude after he had done it. He would make his apologies later. For now, he only wanted to fill his ears and his soul with that intoxicating voice.

The opera singer finished her verse, and another far less gifted soprano took the singing lead. Levi let out a sharp breath and leaned back into his seat, like a captive released from his bonds.

He turned to Lady Elizabeth, who was frowning at him, clearly slighted by his dismissive hand gesture. He smiled, trying to placate her, but she was not amused. Levi thought to render an apology, but to apologize to her would only deepen the insult. The best he could do was to let the lingering tension have its way and hope that it would fade.

Eventually, as Levi indulged in the idle conversation her stare so plainly demanded, her icy frown melted away to a small smirk and then at last to that wide smile.

Even with his eyes fixed on Lady Elizabeth, he could not shake the effect the singer had on him. Every time she had a line to deliver, her voice made his blood run cold. Every time he looked at her, he tensed up. It was – after a while – liberating.

When the show came to an end, the curtain fall was greeted with a rapturous ovation. There was no doubt that they had all seen something special there that night. A singer who could turn a single note into a story.

“Will you be joining us, Lord Gatton?”

Levi shook himself back to full consciousness. Lady Elizabeth had asked him something. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what she had been saying. He smiled sheepishly and rolled the dice.

“Yes?” he said with a questioning tone.

She smiled, turning to her sister. “Oh, wonderful! Isn’t that wonderful, Natalie?”

“It most certainly is,” added her sister without skipping a beat.

“We shall be seeing you soon then, my Lord,” said Lady Elizabeth.

Levi had no idea where or when they would be seeing him. He’d have to ask Edward what the hell she was talking about later.

He accompanied Edward to escort the ladies to their carriage and excused himself to return to the theatre. His friend seemed curious but did not badger him further about it.

He stepped into the theatre and immediately sought out Jasper. Catching sight of him, he beckoned him close.

“My Lord?” Jasper inquired.

Levi spoke in a low tone. “That singer, the lady, who is she?”

Jasper raised an eyebrow. “She… as far as I’m aware is just an opera singer, my Lord.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I mean, what is her name?”

He stared at Levi, confused. “Her name is, well, Diana, my Lord.”

Levi straightened. Diana.

He wet his lips and put a hand on Jasper’s shoulder. “Do we have a moment?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Together, they found a quaint florist at the corner of the street. Levi picked out all the finest flowers he could find. Orchids, lilies, roses, and moonflowers. The storekeeper’s eyes widened as she watched him select only her most exotic and expensive flowers.

The bouquet, when assembled, cost a pretty penny, but Levi barely glanced at the storekeeper’s tally when presented to him. He produced a small coin pouch and summoned Jasper.

“Deliver these to Diana. Please.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Jasper said, taking the bouquet. “Will you not be leaving a note, my Lord?”

Levi scratched his chin. “Yes, I will.”

ONE

Diana took a long sip from her teacup. Her nervousness from hours before was slowly being replaced with relief. She could always tell if a performance had gone well by the look on people’s faces. Tonight, they looked shocked when she had started singing. That was a good sign.  It meant that, in one way or another, she had exceeded their expectations.

A knock sounded on her dressing room door, but before she had time to answer, the door swung open. She quickly pulled her dressing gown around her shoulders as the theatre manager, Mr. Solomon Caney, stepped into the room.

A man of forty years, Solomon Caney’s spectacles hung from a black cord around his neck. He had a large, aquiline nose and a gold fixture where a canine tooth ought to have been. He was a short man but wore platform shoes that gave him two inches in height he didn’t deserve. His cravat was deep burgundy, and his tailcoat of the same colour extended to his calves. The gold pocket-watch visible from his waist pocket was one of several gaudy accessories, and the insufferable half smirk on his lips carried the smug belief that he was a man of means.

When he spoke, his breath carried the musk of whiskey and onions. “You were fantastic tonight,” he said smiling.

He looked at her with the appraising eyes of a veteran pawnbroker appraising a golden necklace.

Diana drew the dressing gown closer around herself. “Thank you.”

“I need a performance like that out of you every night,” he said as he produced a small coin pouch.

Diana accepted the payment and frowned. She could tell from the weight alone that she had been underpaid. Heavily underpaid. “This is less than we agreed, Mr. Caney.”

“And more than you deserve, Miss Brook. You must be a fool if you think I would pay you that for just singing. You’re a pretty girl and a decent singer, but you’re not half as pretty as you think. If I step out into the street and toss two coppers in the air, there would be a dozen girls just as pretty and talented as you grovelling at my feet before the coins hit the ground. They’d be willing to do more to get on that stage too. Much more. If you want to get paid, you’re going to have get off your high horse and find a way to prove your value to me.”

Diana did not want to ask what he meant by that. She just wanted him out of her dressing room.

He stepped towards her. “You’re many things, but you’re not stupid. You’re a clever girl. Clever enough to turn this into a real opportunity for yourself.”

She tried to move back, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She jerked back at his touch, and the teacup slipped from her fingers, spun from her control, and shattered.

He glanced down at the shards of porcelain. “That’s coming out of your next pay. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so…inhospitable. This business is all about give and take.”

He leaned in closer and made a sucking sound with his teeth. “And I know you’ve got a lot more to give.”

Diana spasmed. This time there was no doubt what he meant. Some part of her wanted to give him a slap. To wipe that oil-slick smile from his face. She couldn’t do that, not with this being her only means of making the money she needed to care for her sister, Eliza. She gritted her teeth and lifted her chin, swallowing her disgust.

“Thank you,” she said, tucking the coins into her dressing gown pocket. She then stooped to pick up the shards from the ground.

He chuckled like a gleeful schoolboy and turned to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Wear something nice.”

Diana waited for the door to close behind him and immediately turned the key in the lock, letting out a heavy sigh when it was done. Just like that, all the joy and elation from her performance had leaked out of her like wine from a pierced wineskin. She stared into the dressing room mirror. Don’t weep, Diana. No matter what you do, don’t weep. Her lip quivered, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Solomon intended to bend her until she broke, but he would not have his way of things. She gritted her teeth. Without the pay from the theatre, she couldn’t afford the laudanum, which gave her sister relief from the incessant pain that had plagued her for the last year. As loathsome as Solomon Caney was, Diana would not let him stop her from doing what needed to be done.

When she was dressed to leave, another knock came at her door. She remastered herself before stepping up to it. “Who is it?”

A soft, chirpy voice replied, “It’s me.”

She smiled as she unlocked the door. Her friend Lydia appeared in the doorway, holding the most magnificently beautiful bouquet of flowers Diana had ever seen.

“Someone has a secret admirer,” Lydia said with a girlish smile as she hopped into the room.

Diana’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“A man asked me to give you these,” Lydia replied, handing over the flowers.

The soft, pleasant scent of orchids and lilies made her feel immediately more settled than she had been mere moments ago. She knew at a glance that this was no ten-penny arrangement. There were moonflowers in the bouquet. Even the most purse-friendly florist would only part with moonflowers at an inordinate cost. They had to be imported from the Caribbean and stored in very particular conditions. Whoever her admirer was, he had given her an extremely generous gift.

She could barely find purchase on the words to speak. “What man?” she asked.

Lydia huddled close, taking the stool beside her. “A valet or a footman or some such. He refused to tell me who it’s from.”

Diana took the small note, embedded amongst the moonflowers.

            ‘Go forth and conquer, for the world is small and you are a giant. – Cee’

            She gasped repeating the words to herself and folded the note away. This incredible gesture of kindness had given her the kernel of encouragement that she did not know she needed. Like a morsel of bread in the age of starvation, it nourished her more than she expected. Despite every effort, she found herself finally succumbing to the tears.

“Aww, Diana, don’t cry. You’ll make me cry too,” Lydia said, gathering her into an embrace.

Diana wiped the tears away and smiled. “I guess there are some nice people out there.”

Lydia snorted. “A few.”

They laughed together and allowed themselves to share gossip from the night’s performance. How Lydia had almost missed her cue, how Solomon was an utter wart and how they would soon both be centre stage at finer theatres than this.

When the gossip was well and truly done, Diana bid her goodbye and made her way home.

She lived on King Street, a street where its greatest claim to fame came from being connected to St. James Street and, by extension, the theatre of the same name. The name was incredibly ironic. Of all the streets in London, few were as indubitably unfit for kings as King Street was. Unfit for Diana as well if she told herself the truth. However, hard times meant for undesirable measures, and she was well in the throes of her hardest time. She felt uncomfortable carrying such beautiful flowers through a neighborhood so unabashedly ugly. Some things just didn’t belong in the squalor.

At this hour of the night, King’s Street possessed a subtle danger from the desperate. From nothing-to-lose cutpurses and men who were far in their cups. Any person who came within touching distance was likely trying to pick your pocket or cut your purse. She walked with the quiet hurry of a cat in a dog’s neighborhood.

As soon as Diana ducked into her tenement, she darted up the stairs. She quietly unlocked the door to her apartment and nudged it open with her toe. A dull lantern light from the only bedchamber indicated that her sister was awake.

“Diana?” Eliza called out, hearing the door shut.

Diana stepped into the room. “It’s me.”

Eliza sat up. She was holding a dull grey dress that she had plainly been trying to mend. When her eyes caught sight of the flowers, she pushed back her spectacles, and her lips twisted in a mischievous smile. “Have you found a lover at the opera, dear sister?”

Diana laughed. “A secret admirer, it appears.”

Eliza put the dress aside and moved towards her. The movements were weak and laboured, that of a girl beaten down by illness and infirmity. It broke Diana’s heart seeing her sister so weak. Eliza had always been the stronger of the two of them, and now she looked much older and weaker. She stared into Eliza’s eyes, their mother’s eyes. Diana thought them windows to her staying power. Eliza still bore some strength, but she had been fighting a long time now.

“Have you taken your laudanum?” Diana asked.

Eliza frowned. “It’s run out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Diana snapped, incredulous.

Eliza stared up at the ceiling, refusing to meet Diana’s eye. “It’s expensive, Diana. I don’t want to be a burden on you. I’m getting back to work.”

It made Diana’s heart sink. That was why Eliza was mending the dress. She was trying to make some money. Eliza was like their mother in that way. Some women wait for a hero, others wait for a sword. Eliza was the type to wait for a sword. But she couldn’t be a warrior now, not when she could barely lift a weapon. Diana had to be her warrior and get them through this rough patch unscathed.

Diana pulled her sister into an embrace. “You could never be a burden on me. The only thing I care about is that you are happy and healthy. Nothing else matters.”

She gripped her sister by the shoulders. “Good thing I got these flowers. There are moonflowers in there. I can get good money for the moonflowers and orchids at the market.”

“Don’t do that. They’re so pretty,” Eliza whispered.

“You’re far prettier. Especially when you’re strong and healthy. I won’t have any argument on it. Tomorrow I’m going to get you more laudanum, Eliza.”

Eliza sighed, adjusted her skewed spectacles, and buried her face in the gap between Diana’s head and shoulder. They stayed like that for what felt like a piece of eternity. Neither of them cried; at least not outwardly. That was the strength of their sisterhood; they shared both their pain and their joy.

When morning came, Diana did get good money for the flowers. It hurt to sell them, but they were able to pay for her sister’s treatment with some leftover. For a month at least, they would be alright. As a reminder of that beautiful gesture from the mysterious “Cee,” Diana kept a single yellow orchid. Later, when she arrived at the opera house for the night’s performance, she retrieved the note and reread it. Go forth and conquer, for the world is small, and you are a giant.

Like a dead candlewick pricked with flame, those words stirred something within her. Sitting there, preparing to go on stage, she made a decision. No more suffering. No more late nights for next-to-nothing wages. Something had to change. But she wasn’t going to find a hero; she was going to find a sword.

TWO

It was the same sinking feeling every time Levi entered his father’s study. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a paradise to him; bookshelves lined the room from wall to wall with books on every matter of importance, every sweet word of poetry, every inspired telling of a story. His mother had made the room what it was, and yet his father’s energy lingered over it. Perhaps it was the large painting that hung from the far wall. It depicted a young, handsome gentleman with broad shoulders, bold eyes, and the winning Cooper smile. The subject was Levi’s late uncle Ethan, the very image of the perfect specimen from the Cooper line.

The more Levi looked at the painting, the more it seemed his uncle Ethan was mocking him. His winning smile was almost a smirk, the look of a gentleman on the verge of laughter.

It was customary for the Earl of Exeter to make him wait. The unease in Levi’s stomach seemed to build with the waiting, every second was more uncomfortable than the last. He drummed his thigh with increasing speed as the soft tick-tock of the grandfather clock beside the door made a mockery of his patience. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t nervous. Surely you can’t be afraid of an old gentleman.

            As though an actor on perfect cue, his father stepped into the room. He wore a dark waistcoat and breeches over a white linen shirt. He was still a tall, powerfully built gentleman, though he now carried more paunch around his arms and stomach than the lean muscle of days gone by. He had dark, arresting eyes that seemed to bore into anything they settled on.

Levi rose to his feet and bowed. “Father.”

“Son. So good of you to choose to visit me.”

Levi let the jibe pass without comment. It was a silent slap in the face. Levi hadn’t chosen to visit; he had been summoned. His father had that way of rebuking him. Even when he was saying something sweet, there was always an under-taste of something bitter.

“Tell me, son, have you found a wife yet?”

Levi opened his mouth to speak, but his father cut his sentence in half.

“Of course, you haven’t. You’ve hardly ever done anything on your own. In this, too, I have come to your aid.”

“I…I beg your pardon, Father.”

His father smiled. “I’ve found a wife for you.”

A chill shot down Levi’s spine. He took a slow breath before speaking. “You’ve found a wife for me?”

“An excellent one. Beautiful too. You’ll see for yourself.”

“Father, I –”

“Speak up when you’re talking to me, boy,” his father snapped. “Project your voice.”

Levi drew in breath, swallowed and remastered himself. “Father, I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I don’t need you to find me a wife. I can handle that myself when the time arises.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be stupid, boy. You’ve never been able to make a good decision about anything, and I won’t risk you messing this up like you do everything else. This isn’t about you; it’s about our legacy.”

“I –”

“I’ve already arranged it with the Duke of Gloucester. You’re to marry his daughter, Lady Katherine. Impeccable breeding, good blood, and pretty, too, if I may say so. It will ally our two great families and bring some much-needed stability to the earldom.”

“Father, I –”

“Listen to me. I’ve arranged a dinner party next week at Gatton Hall. It will last seven days, and the Duke will attend with his wife and daughter. I anticipate your attendance, and you will not disappoint me in this. You are my son and I am your father, and if nothing else, you will give me every drop of respect you owe me, understood?”

Levi balled up his fist and bit down hard on his lip. His father was a bull in a tight corral, and he was a broken-legged matador. No matter what he did, he could find no escape from his horns. The man simply didn’t listen. When he felt his mind was made up, he tried to dominate Levi into compliance. Levi wouldn’t let him win in this, but here in his study, it was neither the time nor the place to give his father a piece of his mind. So, he had to make a show of interest to some nobleman’s daughter; he could do that if he had to. He couldn’t win this battle, but he would win the war. He would marry when he was good and ready, no matter what his father said.

He gave his father an ingratiating smile. “Understood, Father.”

His father returned the smile. His voice took on a light, musing quality. “Good.”

As a child, Levi had treasured his father. In those days, he seemed a colossus – proud and strong. As he grew older and his father began to wield his pride and strength as weapons against him, Levi heard all manner of excuses from his relatives. They all said the same thing, the Earl was a kind gentleman until his brother Ethan died. After that, everything changed.

His father had become a gentleman who was slow to praise and lightning-quick to criticize. In times past, he had ripped Levi to shreds with his words, making him feel absolutely minuscule. Whenever Levi had managed to do anything well, or make a success of anything, his father would tell him how his uncle would have done it better or faster.

There was a time when he believed that his father would have loved him if he was better. That time was long gone and Levi had learned the truth: nothing would ever be enough for him. When he discovered the futility of trying to get in his father’s good graces, Levi decided to become the disgraceful gentleman his father accused him of being. He poured his energy into gambling and youthful hellraising, giving himself to every excess. For every act of rebuke from his father, Levi retaliated with an act of rascality.  It was the only weapon he had in their proxy war.

Years of being the victim of his father’s manipulations had taught him a fair bit about his tricks. Sometimes, when his father was being cruel, it was only to throw him off and distract him from some ulterior purpose. He was a master of misdirection. Levi had only one defensive technique when his father was trying to bludgeon his senses: close his hands behind his back and look away to hide his irritation. He was doing that now as his father went on about how he was going to marry someone he had never met for reasons that were not his own.

His mind drifted away from his father’s study, back to the opera. Where he had heard that remarkable woman sing. The texture of that voice, the intensity of it, the way every word seemed to speak deeply to his heart. He would be back at the opera soon. He had to be.

“What are you looking at?” his father asked, pulling Levi back to the study.

“I beg your pardon, Father?”

His father followed Levi’s eyes. He was turned directly to the painting of Ethan.

His father narrowed his eyes. “Your uncle was twenty when he died. He was strong, intelligent, and a born leader. He always took on his responsibility and respected others. When he heard someone cry out from the woods, he stopped his carriage to assist them when someone robbed and killed him. My brother died because he had the decency to help those he thought were in need. Ethan bore the weight of the earldom on his shoulders, and he carried it light as a feather.” His father’s eyes turned to Levi. “You might look like him, but you’ll never be half the gentleman he was. All you have ever cared about is yourself. Drinking, womanizing, and gambling with your friends. Spurning the good name that I worked for and that your uncle died for. This is your chance – do something right and prove me wrong. Be a gentleman for the very first time in your life.”

Levi was stunned for a moment. Then he snapped back to consciousness, and the rage was there, everywhere. He stepped towards his father, intending to clip the old gentleman around the ears. But then he saw the look in his father’s eyes. He was goading him. Manipulating him so he could have something against him to use in one of his schemes.

Just like that, Levi’s anger started to recede. He let out a deep breath and let the candle of fury within burn out. Steeling himself, he spoke slowly. “Father, I am going to leave now. I will be back for the party and look forward to meeting Lady Katherine.”

His father made a dismissive gesture with his hands as though to say “be gone.” “I’ll send a formal invitation. Don’t be late.”

As Levi walked over to his carriage pulsing with anger, he made a promise to himself. He was going to live true to himself, no matter what it would cost him. No matter the consequences, something had to change.

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Chapter One

The moment Tereza opened her eyes this morning, she had been thrumming with excitement. Even now, she felt her heart fluttering with the force of it as she stood in the foyer of Warwick Manor awaiting the guests that would be arriving. She had her hands clasped tightly before her, trying to hold back the urge to pace the foyer in anticipation.

“Tereza.” Lady Warwick’s voice was smooth and authoritative. It instantly pulled Tereza together. “When Miss Beatrice and Lord Herbert arrives, I want you to control yourself.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mother?”.

“You know very well what she means,” Lord Warwick cut in. They shouldered Tereza, her father on the left of her and her mother on the right. Usually, Lord Warwick was gentle and mild-mannered, and it was Lady Warwick who nagged Tereza every chance she got, but today was a little special.

Tereza sighed. On the other end of the door, she knew Beatrice’s carriage had pulled into the driveway. In a matter of seconds, she would see her best friend again. Even so, Tereza suppressed her enthusiasm for her parents’ sake. “I won’t do anything that will embarrass you.”

Lady Warwick mimicked her sigh. She looked as regal as ever, her blond hair—passed down to all the Warwick sisters other than Charlotte—was pinned away from her still beautiful face, her blue eyes trained ahead. “I have a feeling Miss Beatrice would not mind either way.”

That made Tereza grin. They fell silent as the butler reached for the door, announcing the arrival of Miss Beatrice Radcliff and the Baron Herbert. The siblings swept into the foyer, all grins. At least, Beatrice was. Tereza didn’t pay much attention to her brother

“Beatrice!”

No longer caring about the promise she had just made to her parents, Tereza rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her dear friend in a tight embrace. Beatrice gasped, giggling in her ear.

“Tereza! You nearly knocked me off my feet!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Tereza laughed, pulling away. She could not contain her happiness any longer. She had been looking forward to Beatrice’s arrival for weeks, ever since they received the letter from her brother, Lord Herbert. The Season was upon them and Beatrice would be staying with Tereza for a few weeks to take part. Tereza could not have asked for anything better.

She’d been feeling quite lonely as of late. After growing up in a household with three very unique and beautiful older sisters, Tereza had suddenly found herself alone now they were all married. She was happy for her sisters, of course, since they had all fallen in love and moved on to start their own families, but it meant that Tereza was on her own now. Having Beatrice here was simply a dream come true.

“You look absolutely lovely, Beatrice!” Tereza exclaimed. She hadn’t let go of her friend completely, holding her tenderly by each hand. She ran her gaze over Beatrice’s heart-shaped face, drinking in her demure brown eyes and soft brown curls framing her temple. The splash of freckles across her nose had always made her seem far more innocent than she truly was.

“As do you, Tereza,” Beatrice returned with a broad smile. “I did not think it possible for you to grow more beautiful since the last time we saw each other.”

Tereza didn’t get the chance to respond. Beatrice’s eyes glanced over her shoulder and she pulled her hands away from Tereza’s, her cheeks growing pink. Politely, she curtsied to Lord and Lady Warwick who had approached from behind.

“Pardon my manners, My Lord, My Lady,” she said. “It is a pleasure seeing you again. Thank you for having my brother and I.”

“I had wanted to be a little more formal in greeting you all,” Lady Warwick said with a sigh. Even so, she smiled. “But I really should have known better. It will be quite interesting having you with us, Miss Beatrice.” Then, she turned to the man who stood by Beatrice’s side. “You as well, Lord Herbert.”

Tereza looked up at him as well, watching a small smile creep over his face. The Baron Herbert had been caring for Beatrice ever since their parents passed away and had hosted her for her first Season. Tereza had first met him during her last Season when she’d attended a dinner party at Beatrice’s home. He’d been quiet then as well, but she hadn’t missed how energetic he became when he was around those he knew. She’d written it off as him simply not caring to befriend his little sister’s friend, though he had always been kind and polite to her. So Tereza hadn’t minded much.

Lord Herbert swept into a bow. “The pleasure is mine, My Lady. My Lord.”

Tereza watched as her father approached and shook his hand. She couldn’t help studying him, drinking in the long curve of his neck, the sharpness of his chin, the aquiline nose and sharp brown eyes. His dark, almost black, hair was cut Brutus-style, his body clearly well-muscled under his clothes. He’d always been quite handsome but Tereza had never entertained the thought that he might wish to court her. Lord Herbert only cared about his sister. For Tereza…well, there was another gentleman in her heart.

I should not think about him right now or else I will only put myself in a terrible mood. I do not want to ruin my reunion with Beatrice.

“How was the carriage ride?” Lord Warwick asked Lord Herbert and Beatrice.

Lord Herbert was the one to respond. “Quite long, My Lord. I’m afraid I do not possess half the energy that my sister does after such an affair.”

“Yes, well, Miss Beatrice has a kind of exuberance that can only be matched by my daughter. We are mere mortals when compared to them.”

They all laughed at Lord Warwick’s words, Tereza a beat behind. She blinked rapidly, trying to come back to herself. Without realizing it, her mind had wandered off to a past ball, picturing a tall, handsome man with such strong hands and steady and wise eyes—

“Let us make haste to the drawing room,” Lord Warwick suggested. “I have prepared tea for you.”

“You are too kind, My Lord,” Lord Herbert responded. He took the lead behind Tereza’s father, the faint scent of cologne passing with him. It snapped Tereza fully out of her reverie.

Lady Warwick followed suit, with Beatrice and Tereza behind. Beatrice nudged Tereza with her elbow. “You seem quite lost in thought,” she whispered so that the others wouldn’t overhear.

“It is because I am,” Tereza told her honestly, with a sigh.

Beatrice’s gently arched brows raised in question, intrigue now glittering in her eyes. She was fatal for gossip and could sniff it out like a bloodhound. Tereza wasn’t surprised to hear her say, “Oh, pray tell what could have brought on such a laborious sigh, my dear friend.”

“You shall have to wait until we cannot be overheard.”

“Will you devise a distraction so that we could leave early?”

Tereza smiled at the challenge. Beatrice could be quite deceiving, considering she did not show her wild side with as much vibrancy as Tereza. Beatrice appeared like a demure lady, a perfect wife if she so wished, but had a great sense of humor and was rather crafty. Without a doubt, she’d given Lord Herbert unending trouble when she was younger.

Like Tereza, Beatrice had wanted to enjoy her first Season. Many gentlemen vied to court her, but she kept them at arms’ length. Unlike Tereza, Beatrice hadn’t been foolish enough to fall for a man who would not look at her.

“I shall leave that up to you,” Tereza whispered back to her friend as they neared the drawing-room. “It appears as if you already have something in mind.”

“I have a few things, as a matter of fact,” Beatrice confirmed with an impish smile. “But I shan’t say what it is until it is time.”

“I look forward to it.”

They fell silent as they spilled into the drawing-room, they saw that tea and cakes had been set up on a small table between the sofas. Lord Warwick chose to sit in his usual armchair, Lady Warwick on a chaise lounge right next to it. Lord Herbert settled into another armchair facing the left of the room while Tereza and Beatrice sat together on the sofa facing Tereza’s parents.

“Now, Lord Herbert,” Lord Warwick began, his eyes smiling. “What plans do you have for this Season? Will you be searching for a wife of your own?”

“Once Beatrice is married, perhaps I shall consider the idea,” Lord Herbert responded as he raised a cup of steaming black tea to his lips. “Though, at the rate she is going, I fare I will die alone.”

“Brother!” Beatrice gasped.

Lord Herbert chuckled. “I meant no harm, sister. I was only responding to Lord Warwick’s question.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, then seemed to remember that she was before company. “I believe I have a far better chance at marrying than you ever will,” she stated. Lord and Lady Warwick seemed surprised at her words, but Tereza only laughed. She’d heard her and her brother bicker over far little.

“There is no need to worry, Lord Herbert,” Tereza cut in. She was not interested in the tea but did reach for a small crumbling cake. “I’m certain that Beatrice will find her one true love this Season.”

Lord Herbert looked at her, cocking his head slightly to the side. “Why do you think so, Miss Tereza?”

Tereza shrugged. “I have an inkling.”

“I see.” Then he shifted in his chair, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded her. His eyes adopted a far more scrutinizing look, and for some reason Tereza’s heart skipped a beat. “And what of you, Miss Tereza? Do you think you will find your one true love this Season as well?”

Tereza looked at her mother and realized that they were all staring at her. “Y-yes?” she answered, feeling a little flustered. Then she realized. I hadn’t answered the question.

“Pardon me, Miss Tereza,” Lord Herbert spoke up. He sat back, relaxing once more. “I did not mean for my question to startle you.”

“No, not at all,” Tereza rushed to say. The way he was staring at her…as if he could read her mind. It made her want to get up and rush out of the room. “I…simply do not know how to respond. That is all.”

“I see.”

A dramatic sigh followed his words and Beatrice raised a gloved hand to her forehead. “Oh, heavens. I did not think I would feel so tired so quickly.”

“Miss Beatrice?” Lord and Lady Warwick were no longer looking at Tereza, their attention now solely on Beatrice, whose eyes fluttered excessively as she continued to sigh. Lord Herbert, however, still had not taken his eyes off Tereza. Tereza tried her best to ignore him, turning to her friend in mock concern.

After all, she was quite used to Beatrice’s antics and this was certainly one of them. Perhaps that was the reason Lord Herbert did not seem concerned. Perhaps it was because he knew his sister was simply trying to cause a distraction so that the focus was no longer on Tereza.

“Miss Beatrice, are you all right?” Lord Warwick asked, concerned.

“Yes, My Lord…” She lifted her gaze to him and gave him a smile, which slipped right off a second later. She was quite the actress. “However, I believe the heat of the tea might have drained what energy I had left. I think it would be best if I go to my chambers.”

“Tereza,” Lady Warwick spoke up. She no longer looked concerned, as if she sensed this was all an act. She seemed to be hiding a smile. “Could you please help Beatrice to her bedchambers?”

“Certainly!” Without hesitating, Tereza assisted Beatrice to her feet, who tried to give her a grateful smile but stumbled nonetheless. Tereza caught when Lord Herbert rolled his eyes and hid his smile behind his cup. He stayed where he was as Tereza slid her arm into the crook of Beatrice’s and tugged her away.

Tereza and Beatrice kept up the act until they had left the drawing-room. Once they had made it back to the foyer, they descended into a fit of giggles. Tereza had to hold on to the banister to keep from doubling over in her laughter.

“I should have known!” she said between giggles, tears pricking her eyes.

Beatrice clutched her stomach as she tried to bring herself together. Without a doubt, they looked quite unladylike right now, laughing as heartily as they were, but neither of them really cared. There was no one around to see them anyway.

“I told you I had something planned,” Beatrice told her once she’d calmed down, giving Tereza a wink. She slid her arm into Tereza’s this time, leading her up the staircase. “And now that I have successfully gotten us away, you need to pay me back in kind.”

“I do not recall agreeing to such a thing,” Tereza countered.

“You don’t have much of a choice,” Beatrice quipped. She looked at Tereza with a devilish glint in her eye. “There is only one thing I really want to know and I’m sure you are aware of what that is.”

Tereza nearly sighed. She knew Beatrice hadn’t missed the way she’d faltered after her brother’s question and Tereza really couldn’t blame her for her curiosity.

And Tereza was eager to tell her every detail because at this point, she knew she wouldn’t be able to handle it on her own. She would need all the help she could get.

 

Chapter Two

Phillip couldn’t believe he’d almost slipped up like that. To think he’d spent so long learning how to keep his feelings to himself and everything had nearly been undone with only one question. He would have pinched himself had he not still be before company.

Lord and Lady Warwick seemed overjoyed to have both him and Beatrice here. As soon as his sister and Miss Tereza left, they’d delved into conversation about the Season. They asked him if he had enjoyed his time in London last year, if he had high hopes for this Season, and even if he was as exasperated by Beatrice as they were by Tereza, seeing that they seemed to be two peas in a pod. Phillip enjoyed the conversation, except when it centered on Tereza.

“You must understand our sentiment, My Lord,” Lay Warwick sighed. She was quite beautiful for her age, the resemblance between her and Miss Tereza nearly uncanny. Phillip had heard that the other Warwick sisters all shared this unrelenting beauty too, though the second eldest did not share the same blond hair and blue eyes.

In fact, if he remembered correctly, the second eldest sister was the now Duchess of Rutherford, a lovely lady who more closely resembled her father with brown hair and similar eyes. Phillip recalled sitting at a dinner table alongside his sister and Miss Tereza, trying not to let the fact that he was listening to their conversation too obvious. She’d gone on and on about her sisters—how gentle and bookish Charlotte was, how witty and obstinate Louisa was, how hopeless Selina could be when it came on to matters of the heart. Phillip remembered how wistful Miss Tereza had sounded as she spoke, and how that same emotion had pierced him.

He forced a smile onto his face, remembering the present company. “Oh, I most certainly do. My sister has given me no end of worries, it seems no man can live up to her expectations, any of my suggestions, she tells me, “He does not seem right Brother”.”

Lady Warwick laughed airily behind her hand. “I’m afraid our concerns with Tereza are more to do with how…carefree she can be. I’ve told her many times that no gentleman wants a lady who is bold enough to attempt standing on a moving horse!”

“Oh, dear, you knew this would happen,” Lord Warwick cut in. “She’s always been that way.”

“Yes, but—” Lady Warwick sighed, shaking her head. “Never mind. I shan’t speak about that now or else I fear I will never stop.”

Phillip only chuckled. Indeed, he was no stranger to the rumors. The Warwick sisters were quite popular gossip and now that most of them were married, Miss Tereza had successfully taken up the mantle of being a topic of conversation for the ton. She was well known for being a lady who never thinks before she speaks and so considered a little naive and unrefined in comparison with her sisters, it was not the kindest of judgements against her and some thought it would limit her prospects – including apparently her parents.

“Tell us, My Lord,” Lord Warwick said, cutting into Phillip’s thoughts. “Since you do not intend on remaining here for long, will you be returning to London?”

“I will, My Lord, though I am not yet certain when that will be. My plan was to stay here for a few days before moving on, but Beatrice is not very fond of that plan and it is quite difficult for me to deny her anything, I’m afraid.”

Lord Warwick chuckled. “Of course, I understand that completely. Denying imploring eyes of our young ladies is a task for stronger men than you and I.”

“Well said, My Lord.” Phillip pushed himself to a stand. “While I am quite enjoying our conversation, My Lord and Lady, I’m afraid I too am very tired after our long trip. I think I will go to my chambers for a short rest before dinner.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Lord Warwick responded. Lady Warwick gave her own pleasant farewell and Phillip left the couple in the drawing-room.

The moment he was alone, he let out a long breath, raising a hand to his heart. It had been racing the moment he set foot inside Warwick Manor and he was afraid that if he did not get some time to himself soon, it would simply give way. He hadn’t expected to react so strongly to simply being here.

But, it has been a while since I last saw her…

Phillip set off towards the front of the manor, where the staircase was. Unbidden, she popped into his head. The dress Tereza had been wearing was simple, just a dark blue morning gown. He’d seen her in far finer fabrics, had seen her hair done in much more elaborate styles. Yet, the sight of her had made his knees weak, had made his tongue as dry as a desert.

Of course, she’d only had eyes for Beatrice. They were the best of friends, after all, and Phillip had made sure not to involve himself in their conversations overly much. He’d maintained his distance, even though he’d watched her from afar. But now, he would be sharing the same manor as her. Quite a large manor, where they hardly needed to cross paths if he so wished, but Phillip didn’t have that much willpower.

What would she say if I were to tell her that I fancied her since the moment I laid eyes on her?

He’d asked himself that question far too many times and had nearly given into the temptation on several occasions. The day he first met her was a day he would never forget. He had hosted a dinner party, right after Beatrice’s debut. She had insisted that her friend be invited, and Phillip hadn’t thought anything of it. Beatrice was quite friendly. She had a great many friends.

But when he saw Beatrice and Miss Tereza together, Phillip knew this friendship was something different. And when he’d introduced himself to her, when she’d turned to him with those large, sincere eyes, he felt something he’d never felt before either.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Phillip. He thought to himself, shaking his head as he headed down the hallway. You hadn’t been around her for more than a few minutes and you nearly revealed it all.

“Oh, Beatrice, I simply do not know what to do!”

The cry came from a short distance ahead of him. Phillip instantly recognized Tereza’s voice—and the distress in her tone—and his heart skipped a beat. Drawing closer, he noticed that he’d come across a bedchamber, which he surmised must be Beatrice’s.

As soon as he concluded thus, he heard his sister’s voice. “Goodness, you’re beginning to scare me, Tereza. What has happened to cause you to be so distraught?”

Phillip knew he should walk away. They clearly didn’t realize that the door was open, and it was quite obvious Beatrice had staged her faint earlier in order to escape. So, whatever they were about to talk about was something they didn’t want anyone else to hear. He bet he would be at the very bottom of that list.

But instead of continuing down the hallway, Phillip drew closer to the door, pressing his back against the wall to listen.

***

Tereza threw herself against Beatrice’s bed, her arms spread wide. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to formulate her words in a way that would not make her seem like such an embarrassment.

Beatrice came to sit next to her, patting her impatiently on the arm. “If you make me wait any longer, Tereza, I promise you, you will regret it.”

“It is not very ladylike of you to threaten someone like that, you know.”

“And it is not very ladylike of you to spread your arms and legs like a starfish, yet here you are. Now, what is the matter? Why do you look like that?”

Tereza rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands. “There is someone I fancy.”

Beatrice lifted her brows in surprise. “Already?”

“No, no, I’ve been feeling this way since last Season.”

“And I am only hearing about this now?”

“I didn’t know how to say it! I haven’t even told Selina!”

Beatrice drew in a deep breath, visibly calming herself. “Very well. I shall give you the chance to apologize for not telling me sooner, for now, tell me all about this mystery gentleman.”

Tereza just couldn’t keep herself still. She slid off the bed, her dress riding halfway up her thigh when she did. It fluttered down around her ankles as she began to pace back and forth, a blush creeping up her cheeks. Talking about her feelings was something she’d always had a lot of difficulty with.

“I met him during Lady Villimont’s ball,” she began. “We danced with each other and I was smitten from the moment he held my hand. It felt as if I had stepped right into a fairytale, Beatrice.”

“Mm, yes, well a hot and loud ballroom has quite a magical atmosphere.”

Her friend’s droll tone made Tereza laugh, breaking up some of her nervousness. “I don’t know why he decided to ask me to dance because as soon as I was in his arms, he seemed like he was not really interested in me. Not in the way that I’d hoped. He spoke to me as if…as if I was his daughter.”

“His daughter?” Beatrice frowned, tilting her head to the side. A habit shared between brother and sister. “How old is this mystery gentleman?”

“He is Lord William Fletcher, the Earl of Dormer. He is only fifteen years older than I am.” She giggled.

“Ah, I see. So that would make him five-and-thirty.” Beatrice put her hand to her chin in thought. “I suppose I understand where this might be going then. You fear he does not look at you as a woman.”

“That’s exactly it!” Tereza sighed, collapsing back onto the bed again. The force of her fall brought some of her curls loose, but she didn’t care. She would have time to fix it before dinner. “He only danced with me as a matter of courtesy it seemed, and he never looked back at me after that. No matter how much I tried to get his attention, he wouldn’t pay me any mind.”

“I hope you did not make a fool of yourself in the meantime,” Beatrice murmured..

She put her hands over her face, trying to rid her mind of the memories. Throughout last Season, she’d tried her best to position herself wherever Lord Dormer would see her, hoping he would as at least ask her to dance again. That way, she could incite interesting conversation and hopefully not put her foot in her mouth like she had the tendency to do in all her conversations. But she may as well have been invisible for all it seemed to matter to Lord Dormer.

“He won’t pay me any attention because I am nothing but a child in his eyes,” she sighed. “He is also a widower and knows far more about the world than I do. He is a man of far more experience than I could ever hope to have.”

“Well you may be right,” Beatrice agreed. “It is only rumors, but I’ve heard that he enjoys the company of courtesans, it is one thing to be a widower and need some comfort, but to enjoy courtesans’ company clearly means he enjoys more…carnal pleasures. Pleasures that you most certainly know nothing about. One look at you and anyone would be able to tell.”

Tereza rolled her eyes. “You say that as if you are any different than I.”

“I’m not,” Beatrice answered easily. “But I am not the one who is faced with the issue of wanting a man like Lord Dormer to fall for her.”

Tereza sat up. More curls than she’d thought had escaped fell around her face and she roughly shoved it out of the way. “What do you think I should do?”

Beatrice raised her eyes to the ceiling in thought. “I am not certain what you can do about this.”

“Experience,” Tereza said. “I have to get it somewhere. Perhaps when I learn a little more, he will not see me as innocent anymore. At the very least, I might be able to stop blushing whenever he touches me.”

Tereza had always been able to tell what Beatrice was thinking through her eyes. Right now, they flashed with thrill. “Do you know what would be the best way of doing so, Tereza?” Beatrice asked, drawing closer. “You must let Lord Dormer see you with another man! We need to find you a one that can teach you enough of what you need to know, and also make Lord Dormer jealous.”

Tereza had already been contemplating the idea, but hearing it from her friend made her heart skip a beat in fear. She’d never been much like Selina, who’d always longed for her true love. She doubted she would be anything like Charlotte or Louisa, who had not been searching for that love but found it anyway. Tereza wanted to live fully before settling down. Could this be a part of it? An adventure before she secured the man she truly wanted? Could she risk such a thing, surely she only needed to be careful. But who could she ask to undertake such a role?

Just thinking about what it might entail had her body going up in flames.

Beatrice gave her a devilish grin. “Oh, you sweet soul,” she said. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

Tereza nodded her head determinedly. She need only think about Lord Dormer’s deep, sensuous voice and how it had rumbled through her while they danced. “All I need to do is find a gentleman who is willing to teach me all that I wish to know, don’t I? About men’s hearts, what they want, how to be around them. That shouldn’t be too difficult?”

“I agree. You are far too beautiful for any sane man to turn you down. Now,” Beatrice crawled out of bed and proceeded to re-don the bonnet she had been wearing. “Why don’t we go for a walk through the gardens? It is no horse ride, but I believe the sun should help clear our minds and allow us to think of the right candidate for this very important job.”

Tereza eyed her friend, with both wariness and amusement. “I did not expect you to be this invested, Beatrice. Is there something you are hiding from me?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Beatrice sang. She looked over her shoulder at Tereza, running her finger against the brim of her bonnet with a wink. “You know I cannot resist a devious plan.”

Tereza let out a loud and hearty laugh, throwing her hand over her mouth. “With you by my side, Beatrice, I feel as if this will be far easier than I expected.”

“I shan’t let you fail your quest for love, Tereza.” Beatrice came and took Tereza by the arm. “That, I promise you.”

Arm in arm, they left Beatrice’s room, heading towards Tereza’s so that she could fetch her own bonnet. She knew having Beatrice here would make all the difference, her spirits already lifted.

Do you think you will find your one true love this Season as well?

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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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