Chapter One
Monday, 24 April 1826
The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London
Half past four in the afternoon
Laudanum. That teahad to be laced with laudanum.
Lady Mary Caudale sat a bit straighter on the cabriolet armchair in front of Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s desk, watching the partially veiled woman take yet another sip of her tea, her calm silence maddening. Mary’s gaze followed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s efficient movements as she added another small lump of sugar to the liquid, stirring thoughtfully. The bone china of the cup and saucer, with its delicate hand-painted blue, pink, and green floral design, had to be the finest Mary had ever seen, better even than her mother’s prized sets.
And the Dowager Duchess of Kirkstone did not tolerate the mediocre in anything.
Not even her daughter.
Mary had failed on that score rather spectacularly, which is why she now sat in the office of a gaming hell, with her brother, the Duke of Kirkstone, pacing behind her. Kit, a mountain of a man, had a scowl that could bend iron, adding to Mary’stension. She felt as if her scalp itched and her skin crawled as she waited for the proprietress of the infamous Lyon’s Den to do something... anything... other than stir her tea and study the page of foolscap on the desk in front of her. Calmly. Placidly. As if Mary’s world and reputation were not about to be shredded.
Mary’s hands tightened on the reticule in her lap.
A tiny motion, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s head raised a bit. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. We are here to find a solution to your present difficulties, not promulgate them.”
“I just do not see—”
Kit growled, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a hand, palm facing Mary. “Patience, child, for a few moments.” She then placed that hand on the page and took a deep breath. She glanced at Kit. “Please, Your Grace, sit.” She gestured to the other armchair in front of her desk. “You are making your sister’s anxiety much worse, and you are beginning to annoy me.”
Kit paused, then eased into the chair, even as one leg continued to bounce. He looked so much like an Irish wolfhound pretending to be a lapdog that Mary almost smiled.
Still, she felt for him. The man, yet only eight and twenty, had been the Duke of Kirkstone less than two of the most eventful years either of them could remember, beginning with the death of their father. What had followed had been a maelstrom of trials leading to this moment, including Mary’s flight from their home near the Scottish border, Kit’s search for her, his deathly illness, his unexpected marriage to Lady Elizabeth Ashton—one of the ton’s brightest diamonds—and the acquisition of not one butthreechildren into his guardianship. Three children, none of whom belonged to Kit and Beth, although they claimed to have sired one of them.
A claim intended to keep Mary from ruination and shame.
A carefully devised plan... which now seemed to be in the process of dissolving into tatters.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned her attention to Mary. “It is absolutely vital that I have the truth—all of it. Nothing held back.”
Mary chewed her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. She nodded.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Kit, and Mary would have given twenty pounds to be able to see the expression behind the veil.
“This... vicar. He is the source of the rumors about the children. And he is the father of one of them.”
Kit and Mary both nodded.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon focused on Mary again. “He seduced you.”
“I would not say—”
“He seduced her. My father-in-law convinced me not to call him out.”
Mary’s ire flashed. “And me, thank you very much. I did not want you to live with killing a man because I was a foolish idiot.”
Kit snapped toward her. “I should never have left you alone after Father died. You were too young. I failed in my responsibilities to you as your brother and as your duke.”
“I was not a child!”
“You were sixteen!”
“And do you not think you have done penance enough? Claiming Mina to be yours and Beth’s? Ruining her reputation by saying you and Beth had been inappropriate before marriage?”
