Chapter One
A Remote Estate in the Dales, 1807
Lady Verity Nicolet,fifth daughter of the Duke of Pelham, had gone along over the years feeling as if her older sisters were a wall of soldiers ahead of her. She would not have to face theton, or face the idea of finding a husband, while she had a slew of older sisters in the house.
Serenity had been her last bulwark of defense, and now she was gone to Lord Thorpe’s house. It was Verity’s moment, but she was terrified to have a moment. Her youngest sister, Valor, had almost convinced her to refuse to go. Valor did not want her to leave, and Verity did not want to leave either.
Well, shedidwant to leave. She did wish for a family of her own. She desperately wished for children, and her own household to manage as she saw fit, but how could it be possible? She had too much to hide.
It was all well and good to have Winsome challenging her on her every idea, but Winsome never got too far with it. Somehow, Verity had been able to hide what needed to be hidden about herself—she was the stupidest of the Nicolet sisters. And not just by a little bit either. The truth was, the rest of them were rather clever and she was very, very stupid.
Her terrible secret had been close-held for so long that it could never be admitted to now. She knew next to nothing,though her sisters knew all sorts of things. This circumstance was caused by her utter lack of intellect. She could not read because she could not learn how to do it. Because she could not read, she was stuck only knowing what happened to be said around her. It was not nearly enough.
That brief period when they’d had a governess, Miss Pynchon, had revealed it to that lady. Miss Pynchon had sat her down on a number of occasions and tried to get somewhere with it. She’d got nowhere with it. She’d accused Verity of being lazy, of not trying very hard, though that was not the truth.
Those days in study under Miss Pynchon had been painful and terrifying and Verity was only grateful that the lady had not been employed long. They would be meant to be reading something, and Verity would bend over her book like shewasreading and turn pages when Winsome turned pages. But then when she was questioned on the material, she had nothing to say, but for attempting to parrot something Winsome had said. She’d become a master at phrasing something said in a slightly different way.
Unbeknownst to anybody, she’d kept those books of Miss Pynchon’s under her bed, long after that lady had departed. Verity had stared at the pages by candlelight, trying to take in what they said. Trying to make sense of them. It was not as if she did not know her alphabet. She did. It was not as if she could not concentrate on a word and understand it. She could. Usually. Eventually. It was not as if she did not wish to be educated and know things. She desperately did.
But a whole page of writing would defy her. The words would jumble and make themselves into patterns and words that made no sense. Her sisters could read, the whole world could read, but her mind seemed to lack the patience and determination for it and just threw the letters up in the air.
As a way round the problem, she was in the habit of convincing Winsome to read aloud, using the ruse that her sister had the best speaking voice. Verity invariably encouraged Winsome to pick out a book full of facts so she could learn something, but Winsome was forever throwing them aside to pick up some dreadful gothic novel.
Verity kept her ears open to pick up whatever facts she could from wherever she could. In a pinch, if she was not entirely sure of the veracity of a particular fact or opinion, she tacked on a demure—she’d heard it said, or she had been told, or that was her understanding. That way, if she were proved wrong, she might shift the blame onto whatever anonymous person she’d heard it from.
If she’d heard it from anyone.
Sometimes what she said just came from her own guesses at what must be right. At other times, she said things that were ridiculous or outrageous and she knew it, but her rising panic over being found out clouded her mind. In those moments, it was as if a fog had settled over her thoughts and absolutely anything might be said before she could stop herself.
She was hungry for knowledge, she wanted to know things, but everything known in the world was secreted away in books, and books were beyond her reach. And what was she to do as a married lady when she got letters? Scrawly handwriting was even worse than a book. She had begun to think she would have to claim there was something wrong with her eyesight that no spectacles could rectify. Therewassomething wrong with her eyesight, but only for words. She could see a far fence astride her horse, but words defied her.
They would set off for London on the morrow and then she would only have days before she must show herself in society. Just now, she bent over a bit of embroidery that she got nowhere with. She never did, as she found the close work of apattern almost as frustrating as a book. Winsome read from a typically ghoulish novel, using inflections for the various voices in it. The heroine was beginning to suspect that everybody she’d been talking to in the old castle where she’d been employed was actually dead, but for the skulking earl. But maybe he was dead too! Maybe the heroine herself was dead and didn’t know it. Or if still alive, maybe she would be dead soon!
Mrs. Right was keeping an eye on Valor, no doubt afraid the story would give her nightmares. She would probably be correct. Valor had matured over the years, somewhat, but she was still subject to nightmares.
Verity looked out the drawing room windows at the rolling hills of the Dales. The calm of it, the predictably changing seasons, and the quiet, all soothed her. Maybe it was not too late to refuse to go to Town?
But then, how would she ever have her own family if she did not?
Her father came into the drawing room, waving a letter. “It’s finally come, Mrs. Right,” he said. “The gauntlet has been thrown down once more and the game is afoot.”
The only person in the wide world who ever dared throw a gauntlet in the duke’s direction was Lady Marchfield, and the gauntlet she was in the habit of throwing was a butler. Every season, she moved a butler into the duke’s residence on Grosvenor Square in her effort to make the Nicolet household more regulated. Every season, Mrs. Right hatched a scheme to get them out. For her father, it was one of the primary entertainments of the season and he would not put a stop to it for the world.
Mrs. Right folded her arms in preparation for battle. “What, pray, does Lady Marchfield threaten us with this time?” she asked.
“It seems this time, she makes it a mystery,” the duke said, laughing. Listen to this.”
Roland—
I suppose you imagine me beaten and retreating from the field after last year’s events. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have redoubled my efforts to mold your household into something resembling well-bred. (Despite what my lord says. His opinion is it is hopeless.)
I have been working on a particular idea since last season. Do not imagine you will come out of this victorious. As well, you can tell that uncouth housekeeper you continue to employ that she is about to get a dose of her own medicine.
Your disgusted sister
“Oh dear, she did say…” Winsome said.
“Said what?” the duke asked.
