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One
Hampshire 1812
The Right Honorable Thomas Daventry, only son of the Viscount Daventry, hadn’t been home in ages. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with his parents. He did. It was more that he didn’t get on with Hampshire. The rolling fields dotted with puffy white sheep were certainly bucolic, but they were also tedious as hell. At nineteen, what did Thomas want with sheep and fields and an old drafty pile? London with its artists and theaters and clubs was far more exciting than Daventry Hall.
Or was it?
After last night, Thomas wondered if perhaps the old pile and his staid father and mother had unplumbed depths. And if his father was keeping secrets, Thomas wanted to know.
Which was precisely why he’d ridden hell-for-leather the last few hours to reach home.
Just after noon the sun peeked out from behind low-hanging clouds that had threatened rain, and Thomas crested the rise overlooking the stately house. It had been built in the last century by some famous architect or another. Thomas considered the man an architect with little imagination. How difficult was it to design a gray stone rectangular building? Daventry Hall was all symmetry and proportion, right angles and clean lines. Not a column, not a tower, not a turret (whatever that was) to be seen. It was stable and predictable, like his parents.
Seeing the house again, Thomas almost turned right back around. It was foolishness coming here and confronting his parent about the information he’d received last night.
On the other hand, as long as he was here, he might as well have a meal.
Half an hour later, Thomas joined his father in the library. This dark-paneled room with plush couches and heavy draperies had always been his favorite room in the house, and he’d read most of the books it contained. Thomas had done his share of writing as well. He fancied himself a bit of a poet, though he’d yet to sell any of his verse.
Like the library, the viscount looked much as he always had, though his dark hair was mostly gray now, and he wore his spectacles more often than in the past. The viscount removed them now and gave Thomas a long look from behind the polished desk.
“What have you done now?”
Thomas scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t I come for a visit?” He sat in one of the chairs across from the desk and admired the shelves of books.
The viscount tapped his fingers on the desk, while the low fire in the hearth crackled. “Have you gambled away your allowance?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Fallen in love with an actress?”
“You’ll need to increase my allowance if I’m to catch the eye of any actresses.”
“Noted. What is it then? Been challenged to a duel? Lost your credit—”
“None of those. I haven’t done anything except attend a dinner party.”
