Chapter One
Saturday, 2 April 1825
London
Thomas Philip ElihuAshton, Marquess of Newbury, stood on the stoop outside White’s gentlemen’s club, the wolf’s-head cane he always carried hooked over his forearm as he tugged on his gloves with sharp, irritated jerks. He pulled his top hat down and turned up the collar of his dark gray superfine topcoat, a low growl in his throat as he waited. Fog had encased the damp streets, with thick, smoky tendrils drifting and curling in the slight breeze. The twin lamps on the pillars at the base of the steps flickered, casting stark shadows across the stone walls and steps of the club. A heavy scent of cold soot and rotting garbage tinged the air of St. James’s Street, seeping in from the alleyways. Just the kind of night Thomas would have preferred to linger by one of the club’s hearths, savoring a fine brandy and trading rumors with his friends. But tonight, he was on a mission.
A few moments later, a burst of laughter came from inside the exclusive establishment as the door opened and closed, sending a brief wave of heat over Thomas, a warmth that dissipated almost immediately in the chilled air of the spring night. Robert Ashton stepped up beside him, pulling on his own gloves. “You could have waited till I finished the hand.”
Thomas snarled. He had reached the end of his patience with his brother more than an hour earlier. “You were losing.”
“I had been winning. On a streak until you showed up.”
“And you were losing now. Where’s your hat?”
“I lost it this afternoon.”
“To the wind or a card game?”
“It was a nice hat.”
So a card game.“Just how many of Mother’s messages have you ignored?”
Robert snorted. “Messages. More like royal summons.”
“How many?”
Robert hesitated. “How many has she sent?”
“Seven.”
A shrug. “Then seven.”
Thomas thumped his brother on the back of the head.
Robert scowled and smoothed the disturbed curls. “I hate it when you do that. Always have.”
“Stop behaving in a way that prompts it.”
“You are a royal bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. And by better men than you.” Frustration with his brothers—and himself—felt smothering. He had sometimes wondered how three men from the same parents could be so different. They all stood taller than six feet, topped by wild, ebony curls, but there the similarities ended. Michael and Thomas had the same black eyes as their mother, while Robert’s ice-blue irises reflected their father’s heritage. Robert’s dress of the evening barely reached the White’s standard, while Michael preferred the rough woolen suits of a tradesman. Thomas adjusted the hat again, straightened his burgundy brocade waistcoat, and touched his silver gray cravat, a reassurance that it was still starched and straight.
Robert gave a harsh laugh. “Just because you dress like a dandy does not mean you are one.”
“And just because you are ashamed of who you are does not mean I have to be as well.”
The carriage emblazoned with the Kennet ducal crest pulled up in front of the club. A footman dropped to the ground and opened the door, and Thomas started down toward the street. “You cannot think it’s permissible to ignore a dinner invitation from our parents with no response whatsoever.”
Robert followed him with hesitant steps. “Do you really think she expects a response? Or did you forget that they have given up on their sons?”
Thomas growled. “They have not. More like we’ve given up on them.”
“Oh of course.”
Thomas glanced back at Robert. “Where’s Michael?”
Robert threw his arms wide. “There are pubs all over London. Pick one.”
