Prologue
White’s, London 1818
The six old dukes had settled themselves round a roaring fire in their favored room of the club, each man aiming his feet toward the flames. The rain had come down in buckets since dawn, the morning no brighter than twilight. To a man, they were uncomfortably damp, despite expensive greatcoats and finely-made umbrellas. At their time of life, the wet was a cold serpent twisting round their arms and legs and slithering through their bones.
Still, they had all roused themselves and ventured out into the wretched weather to meet with one another. These gatherings had become usual to discuss the pact between them meant to spur their sons on to marriage and heirs. So long a time had they met in this manner that the Duke of Carlisle already had a grandson, by way of his daughter-in-law, Lady Hampton.
The pact between the dukes, conceived and launched in desperation, had cut funds and made things very uncomfortable for these errant sons. The strategy had seen success after success. To be sure, there had been bumpy roads and twisting byways to that success, but most of them had now had the pleasure to sit at a wedding breakfast.
Yet, at this moment, the men were strangely silent. As footmen silently swirled round them, handing out cups of warmed wine and setting up trays of meats, cheeses, and hot rolls, the gentlemen looked everywhere but in the direction of the Duke of Bainbridge. This should have been that gentleman’s moment for congratulations. But was it? They’d all read of the upcoming nuptials between Lord Grayson and Miss Dell in the newspapers. But had it really come off?
The Duke of Bainbridge suddenly laughed. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you look as though you attend a funeral. Yes, I know the cause of it—recent events seem most improbable. You may ease your minds, my friends. My son is married, I watched the ceremony with my own eyes.”
The dukes breathed a collective sigh of relief. The Duke of Wentworth, who now found himself the unfortunate owner oftwogouty feet as opposed to one, stared at those swollen appendages that just now rested together on a stool.
“Penderton’s daughter, though,” he said with a note of incredulity. “I only say…that is, I had heard, I think it was hinted at, that she is rather, how shall I say…bookish.”
“Yes,” the Duke of Gravesley said, “I heard so, too. A veritable scholar just like her father. And of course, your boy is…well, how would one describe it? I suppose one might say, that is, he is generally understood to have…an aversion to books.”
“I do not claim to comprehend it,” the Duke of Bainbridge said, “but they appear delighted with one another. I expect they share eccentricity as a common trait, as they have gone off to Sweden of all places for their wedding trip.”
“We congratulate you, Bainbridge,” the Duke of Carlisle said. “Perhaps there is a lesson in this. We must understand that there are any number of ways a couple may find they prefer one another. At least, we must hope so, as we approach the end of the road regarding this pact between us.”
“A most difficult end,” Gravesley said.
The gentlemen round the fire all nodded, as if they had been dreading this day for some time.
“Well all right,” the Duke of Glastonburg said. “He’s the last holdout. How do we get that devil’s spawn of mine married?”
“Dalton? God knows,” the Duke of Carlisle said. “I fear it will take extraordinary measures.”
“Then extraordinary measures it shall be,” Glastonburg said. “I will not be left behind on this matter. I will not sit idly by while the rest of you bounce grandsons on your knees. By God, that rogue will come to heel!”
“Hear, hear,” the gentlemen murmured, though it was not particularly rousing or imbued with the confidence one might have wished for.
Chapter One
Miss Daisy Danworth clutched Mrs. Jellops’ hand. They stood in Daisy’s bedchamber in the house on Grosvenor Square, a rather sad affair of dull furnishings, worn carpets, and old curtains. Her father, Viscount Childress, never cared to spend money on anything a visitor would not see and so, above stairs, they lived in whatever the owner of the house had left for their use. Daisy might be dressed in all manner of silk and fine lace, but behind closed doors was decidedly shabby. It was also decidedly uncomfortable—the fires might roar in the drawing room and dining room, but they only sputtered in her own.
Though she and Mrs. Jellops had often bemoaned the discomfort of the sparse and cold chamber, the two ladies had not a care about the state of the room at that moment. They were at the window, watching for signs of anyone arriving to the house. The news had been coming in fits and starts all morning and they had been on tenterhooks to discover what was to be the end of it.
A cart pulled up to the front gate, driven by a gruff old farmer from the countryside. Surrounding the cart on horseback were her father’s particular cronies, none of which Daisy would allow into the house had it been her right to bar them from it. They were the worst sort of men—heartless and careless, crude and loud, and usually drunk.
As Mr. Gringer dismounted, Daisy glimpsed into the cart. Her father laid there, just as she expected. What she had not known was in what condition he would arrive.
“A sheet covers his face,” Daisy said quietly. “He is dead. My father is finally dead.”
Mrs. Jellops peered down and whispered, “I can hardly believe it. Can he really be dead? I half expect him to suddenly sit up and punish us for being at the window.”
Both ladies shivered at the thought and Daisy was shaken from her confidence. Mrs. Jellops was right, nothing was yet proved. It seemed impossible that anything could kill such a man. How could a horse and a fence kill the beast that had been the bane of her existence?
Perhaps he only pretended as some cruel joke? Or worse, perhaps he pretended so he might glean what her feelings would be on hearing of his demise? She had been careful, always, to hide her enmity. But might it not have been unmasked somehow and now he sought proof of it?
He had always been vengeful and spiteful, finding slights in everything and punishing those perceived slights from whatever direction they came. He’d been in more than a few duels and men stayed well clear of him when he was in a temper, lest they be forced to meet him at dawn over some ridiculous matter. He was unhappy with the world and went through it with his sword raised.
Lord Childress had been convinced, long ago, that Penny’s mother, Lady Childress, had been unfaithful. He had tormented the woman into a sickbed, and then harangued her into a grave. It had taken years to do it, but Lord Childress was nothing if not determined.
As a girl, Daisy had listened to it all from around doorways, through open windows, and sometimes in the very room she cowered in. She’d heard the insults and threats, and she’d seen the bruises her mother tried so hard to hide.
