Prologue
Lily & Grove Dress Shop
London, England
December 1813
The joyous soundof carolers followed Lady Farthing inside the dress shop on a briskly cold December morning. Dusting snow off her hat and removing her cloak, she scowled darkly at the front window. “If I wanted to hear cats shrieking, I would have gone to Lady Topple’s house.”
“My cats don’t shriek,” Lady Topple called out from behind a curtain where she was being measured for a new corset. “They’re quite demure.”
Lady Farthing gave an indelicate snort. “The last time we were over for tea, the yellow one ate my cheese.”
“Mr. Whiskers only took alittlebite.”
“Mr. Whiskers is the reason you don’t yet have a husband.”
“Who doesn’t have a husband?” A gust of winter air and a few strayfa la las followed Lady Harmsworth into the shop as she joined her friends for their monthly gathering where they used new dresses as an excuse to catch up on all of the latest gossip thetonhad to offer. “Not the Marchioness of Kentwood. You heard, of course, that she and the marquess have reconciled.”
“Everyone knows that,” Lady Farthing said dismissively. “I still claim the timing is suspicious. I met Kitty once. She’s asocial climber if ever there was one. How convenient that she patched things up with her husband right after he inherited his new title.”
Lady Harmsworth raised a brow. “That’s rather cynical, even for you. A woman has two ways of making a success of herself in this world. On her back, or on her back. Better Kitty be under a marquess. I say good for her.”
“WellIbelieve they’re truly in love.” Lady Topple stepped out from behind the curtain in a blue silk dressing robe, her face flushed from having her waist pulled in two inches past where it wanted to go. “How wonderful that two sisters from a less-than-advantageous family could make such high matches. First Mara with her duke and then Kitty with her marquess. We should be happy for them.”
“I’ll be happy when that atrocious singing has come to an end,” said Lady Farthing, glaring at the carolers that had yet to move on from the snow-covered pavement in front of the dress shop. “Lord Farthing insisted on his monthly visit last night and I’ve a terrible megrim.”
“Maybe this will serve as a suitable distraction.” Helping herself to the platter of refreshments set out for clients, Lady Harmsworth bit into a scone and absently brushed the crumbs from her chin. “I have it on thehighestof authority from Lady Button, who spoke with Lady Cummings, who overhead Mrs. Bishop—”
“Not again,” Lady Farthing groaned. “Please just get on with it. You’re worse than Lord Farthing.”
“Fine,” Lady Harmsworth sniffed, crossing her arms beneath her heavy bosom. “Have it your way. I have heard, from a string of very reliable sources, that a certain earl has returned to London after twelve long months spent searching for his missing wife.”
“Did he find her?” Lady Topple asked curiously.
“That”—Lady Harmsworth paused dramatically—“I do not know.”
Lady Farthing rolled her eyes. “Whatdoyou know?”
“His name, to begin with.” Another pause, this one longer than the first. “Lord Stephen Highborn, the Earl of Lancaster.”
Two audible gasps filled the dress shop.
“Are you sure?” said Lady Topple.
“I thought he was dead,” said Lady Farthing.
Lady Harmsworth smiled smugly. “I can assure you the earl is very much alive and was sighted only yesterday at Twinings. If he did indeed find his wife, she was not with him. They were betrothed as children, if you recall. Before the girl’s mother lost her mind and ran away to the United Colonies. Can you imagine? Being bornhereand having to grow uptherewith those... with those... well, I shall not say the word aloud. Honestly, it’s a wonder Lord Lancaster ever went looking for her in the first place. Do you remember those hideous shoes Lord Harmsworth gave me for our wedding anniversary?”
“The puce-colored ones?” asked Lady Topple.
Lady Harmsworth shuddered. “Indeed. I had my maid shove them so far under the bed they were never seen again. When my husband asked where they were, I said I couldn’t find them. Eventually, he stopped asking.”
“What was her name?” Lady Farthing frowned. “The girl, that is. I cannot recall.”
“Abigail,” Lady Harmsworth supplied. “The only child of the Duke and Duchess of Hanover. Rumor has it the duke was in dire financial straits and auctioned his daughter’s hand away before she was even born. The late Lord Lancaster was the highest bidder and his son the beneficiary.”
“What a terrible thing,” said Lady Topple. “To be promised away to a man before you have even spoken your first word.”
