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Chapter One

"So, instead of returning to observe my nephew's first birthday, I have returned to news of my brother's death."

George William Percy, the ninth Duke of Cavendish, stood before the tall, diamond-paned windows of his private study, his velvety voice cutting through the silence of the room. Outside, the gloom of London dusk dissolved into a relentless autumn rain, heavy drops beating against the glass.

Seated at the massive mahogany desk, Mr. Pembroke, the Percy family solicitor, shifted uncomfortably in his leather chair. The elderly man cleared his throat, smoothed down his wrinkled breeches and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles as he arranged a thick stack of black-bordered parchment before him.

"Your Grace, it was of utmost importance that you⁠—"

George turned slowly, his tall, powerful frame casting an imposing shadow across the Persian carpet. He still wore his damp, mud-splattered traveling cloak, and his dark black hair, damp from the downpour, clung to his temples. He stepped toward the crackling hearth as his piercing blue eyes burned with a mixture of exhaustion, sadness, and fury.

"Save it, Pembroke. I believe experience makes you wiser, does it not? I daresay you could have handled things better."

George had spent three days in the punishing cab of a post-chaise, tearing across the muddy roads of England after an urgent express from Mr. Pembroke had reached his lodgings in Paris. He had anticipated legal disputes, financial entanglements left behind by his late, tyrannical father, or perhaps an elaborate prank from his younger brother, Edward. He was prepared for anything but the silent, empty graveyard that Cavendish Manor had become in his absence.

I left England to escape my father's bitter ghost, George thought, the memory of his father's curses rising through the recesses of his mind. But while I drowned myself in wine, cards, and meaningless flirtations, my brother was dying in an empty house.

"I apologize for the bluntness of the communication sent to France, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke said softly. "However, time was of the absolute essence, and the news could not be softened by ink and paper."

"Softened?" George echoed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. His boots made a heavy thud against the floorboards as he stepped forward. "There is no way to soften the death of my family, Mr. Pembroke. Speak plainly. Spare me your delicate sensibilities and tell me precisely how my brother died."

The solicitor let out a weary sigh as he folded his thin, spotted hands over the ledger. He had served the Cavendish duchy for nearly four decades, witnessing the cruelty of the previous duke and the painful exile of the young man who now wore the ducal coronet.

"It began three months ago, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke explained, his voice measured and grave. "Lady Charlotte's labor was extraordinarily difficult. The accoucheurs and midwives worked for nearly twenty hours to deliver the child. While the infant proved healthy and strong, her ladyship never fully recovered her strength. She remained bedridden, tormented by childbed weakness that no medicine could soothe. Less than a fortnight following the delivery, a violent fever took hold of her. She passed away quietly in the night."

George's chest constricted. Lady Charlotte had been a spark of light in the darkness of his father's home, a gentle, spirited woman whose bright laughter had once managed to thaw the gloomy hallways of this very estate. Edward had adored her.

And Edward was gone.

George lifted his chin, taking a deep breath to brace himself. "And my brother?"

"Lord Edward was utterly destroyed by her loss, Your Grace," the solicitor continued, dipping his head in sorrow. "He refused to leave her bedchamber for days. He neglected his own nourishment, his sleep, his very life. In his weakened state, the same malignant fever caught him. Within a week of burying his wife at the family crypt, his own body surrendered to the sickness. He succumbed only five days ago."

The silence that followed was broken only by the steady tapping of rain against the windowpane. George closed his eyes, pressing the knuckles of one hand against his mouth. I left to protect him. I failed. And he died alone.

"And his son?" George demanded, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he forced his eyes open.

"The young master survived, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke replied, a faint flicker of warmth breaking through his austere mask. "Little Oliver is three months old. He is healthy, vibrant, and entirely unharmed by the sickness that claimed his parents. But with Lord Edward and Lady Charlotte both gone, the child is left without a mother or a father."

The solicitor paused, reaching into his leather portfolio to withdraw a document sealed with thick red wax, alongside a smaller, delicate sheet of paper bearing a feminine hand. He pushed them across the dark wood toward George.

"By law and by your late brother's standing, you are now the child's legal guardian, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke stated. "The entire responsibility of his estate, his care, and his future rests squarely upon your shoulders."

Guardian? George thought, staring down at the sealed documents as if they were venomous adders. I cannot even govern my own life without tearing it to pieces.

George reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold red wax of the will before picking up the smaller, folded letter.

"What is this?" George asked, nodding toward the letter.

"That letter contains Lady Charlotte's final desires regarding the personal care of her son," Mr. Pembroke explained, leaning back in his chair. "Written only days before her passing, when she realized her strength was failing. In it, her ladyship formally requested that her closest companion and lady's maid, Miss Helena Witherford, be named as little Oliver's godmother."

George raised an eyebrow, his dark brows knitting together in faint recollection. "Miss Witherford? I know the name. Her father was an earl, was he not?" It was rare, though not unheard-of, for a noblewoman to serve as a lady's maid. Some vague hint of scandal drifted through his memories. Had this Miss Witherford had some social entanglement to recover from?

"Precisely, Your Grace," the solicitor confirmed. "The late Earl was a man who managed to gamble away three centuries of family inheritance before his demise. His son inherited what little remained, squandered the rest on racehorses, and vanished to the continent, leaving Miss Witherford entirely destitute."

"I still see no reason why she is here. Did she not have relatives outside London who could offer her some succor? I believe even a young lady like her must have a few members of distant kin with some affluence, no?"

George wondered, trying to piece together the fragmented situation he had been thrown into. In his boxing days, he would use weeks to examine his opponent, gathering whatever details he could. He would not discard such a helpful habit now, even if he had only hours and not weeks to prepare.