Prologue
White’s, London 1816
The six dukesgravely sipped their port. Or, in the case of the Duke of Wentworth, gulped it. That particular duke stared glumly at his bandaged foot, which was just now elevated on a stool. He was eternally gouty and though his physician blamed it on port, the duke was equally certain port was the only thing that soothed that blasted appendage.
The six gentlemen had entered the realms of late middle age, that time period when a reliable body begins to betray in surprising and unwelcome ways. Youth had fled and they had resigned themselves to it. At their time of life, they looked forward to doting on grandchildren. Specifically, a male grandchild born of their eldest son, and a spare for good measure. A man could not be satisfied to consider departing the world until his line was secure for generations to come.
Though they looked forward to that blessed state of finding grandsons all round, it seemed always to be far ahead of them. Not a one of their rogue sons had managed to marry. In truth, every damn one of them had studiously avoided the state.
“Gentlemen,” the Duke of Gravesley said, “while we are grateful beyond measure that we stillhavesons to carry on for us, the war is over. A new war, a more personal war, is set to begin.”
“Hear, hear,” the gentlemen murmured.
“If we do not force these scoundrels to marry,” His Grace continued, “we are in danger of never setting eyes on a grandchild.”
“Dash it!” the Duke of Dembly exclaimed, as if the idea had just occurred to him. This drew various looks from the others, as the matter had been the subject of their discussions for some months.
“We did our duty in producing these scoundrels,” the Duke of Carlisle said, “and now it is time for them to dotheirduty.”
At the mention of duty, which was an idea that greatly stirred the dukes’ hearts, there was a gentle stamping of feet in approbation. Even the Duke of Wentworth stamped his good foot.
“The time has come, my friends, to take steps,” the Duke of Gravesley said. “Dire steps.”
One by one, the men nodded. They had debated for weeks on the correct course, now it was time to act.
“We are agreed,” His Grace said. “We enter into a formal pact and swear that none of us will fold under misplaced affection.”
And so, the six dukes took dire steps to secure their respective lines for generations to come.
Verydire steps.
Chapter One
“All hail thepact. Absolutely everybody was talking of it,” Lady Marksworth said, buttering her toast with relish.
The breakfast room, filled with sunshine that morning, had also been filled with Lady Marksworth’s various comments. It might have been Greek for all Cassandra understood it.
Cassandra Knightsbridge, only daughter of the Viscount Trebly, had been sent out of the quiet environs of Surrey to live with Lady Marksworth for her first season—her father was certain Cass would do far better under her aunt’s guidance and tutelage. After all, if anybody knew how to avoid a misstep in London, it was Lady Marksworth and if anybody needed to know the same, it was Cassandra Knightsbridge.
Cassandra’s life in Surrey had not been typical or usual or regular or whatever society would term the proper mode of going on. Growing up in a house with no mother, and dominated by a practical, no-nonsense father, had given her a latitude that most young ladies could not dream of.
Despite her governess complaining endlessly, Cassandra rode to the hunt on a sidesaddle specially modified for jumping, it would not be unusual to find her in the stables at midnight, assisting in bringing a foal into the world, and rather than carrying around a precious lap dog, she was the owner of a great beast of a mastiff named Mayhem. Perhaps most surprising, her father had gone so far as to allow her to shoot pheasant and she had not shied away from the opportunity.
Cassandra was not entirely unaware that some of the particulars of her upbringing would shock those in a London drawing room. She understood her little corner of Surrey, but navigation through the opportunities and pitfalls of a season was needed, and Lady Marksworth would expertly steer the ship. Her aunt had already got her through her curtsy to the queen, an experience Cass likened to finding herself a pheasant flying by the throne and hoping not to be bagged.
“Has anything more divine ever occurred to launch a season?” Lady Marksworth said. “An actual pact.”
“I am sorry, Aunt,” Cassandra said, “what is the pact?”
“Thepact,” Lady Marksworth said. “Little else was spoken of last evening.”
“Nobody said anything to me about a pact,” Cassandra said.
Lady Marksworth’s forehead wrinkled, as it was wont to do when she considered her niece. Then it quite suddenly cleared. “Ah! I see, of course nobody would have discussed it with you. I sometimes forget—while to me you are wise beyond your years, to others you must appear a very innocent young lady.”
“I hope I may be considered innocent,” Cassandra said, in some alarm that anybody should think otherwise.
“Yes, yes,” Lady Marksworth said, waving her hands. “In any case, I suppose Lady Blanding’s guests would have avoided the topic with you and Sybil, as it may have caused you both some embarrassment.”
