Chapter One

38 Grosvenor Square, 1802

Lady Jemima Fornay, eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Eddleston, had not, until very recently in her history, given much examination to her person. She was as she was and that had been perfectly fine.

"Aggie," she said to her maid as she stared into her looking glass, "do you think those horrible people were right about my hair? That it ought not be so forward a color?"

Aggie, a pert young woman whose father was the local miller of their estate's neighborhood, shook her head rather violently. "It most definitely is not. It is very pleasant, I've always thought. It looks like the color of a dying fire. You know, before the ash covers it up. When it's just getting low."

"A dying fire? Well, I suppose that's better than Mrs. Ramsey's description of it being startling and loud."

Jemima had spent the entire summer being harassed by Mrs. Ramsey, Mrs. Lodewell, and the worst of them, Mr. Gamon. Those three had been hired by her father to prepare her for her first season in Town. At least, that was what the duke said they were for.

As far as Jemima could see it, their sole job was to make her feel terrible. Her hair was too forward, her laugh was too loud, her horse-riding was dangerous and undignified, her appetite was shocking. She was advised to be modest and abashed, never ride her horse faster than a trot, and dispense with a second plate of eggs at breakfast. If she laughed, it should be done quietly and behind a fan. What she was meant to do about her startling and loud hair, they had never seemed to have come to any rational conclusion about.

"It would have been nice," she said, "if they'd managed to find a single thing that was not wrong and must be changed."

Aggie shook out a velvet pelisse that had been lying on the bed and said derisively, "Those three harridans were like buckets of water thrown on a party. How many times did that Mr. Gamon tell me I was too pert? So many times, that I went out of my way to be pert whenever he was nearby. I reached for the very pinnacles of pertness, and I got there, too."

Jemima laughed as she knew that to be perfectly true. The only consolation the past months had held was observing Aggie making Mr. Gamon go red in the face.

"In any case," Aggie said, "despite Mr. Gamon's dire predictions, you managed your curtsy to the queen without setting London on fire."

Jemima nodded. That really had been the great hurdle to get over. The ridiculous dress that did not allow one through a door other than going sideways, the preponderance of ostrich feathers waving atop her head as if wanting to take off and fly her somewhere, the tedious line of carriages and then the tedious line of other young ladies waiting their turn, some of whom were dabbing tears from their eyes in terror…well, it had been uncomfortable from start to finish.

Jemima had not had tears in her eyes, though that was only because she kept forcing her thoughts away from what was to come and instead thinking of her horse. Her mother had gone a long way to keeping her in relative calm too. She periodically whispered little things like: "The queen will forget you as soon as you retreat." And: "Don't forget this is a tedious day for Her Majesty, she will be thinking of her tea."

At the end, her curtsy had been accomplished in under a minute and the next girl and her mother took their place.

What on earth anybody ever did with that court dress afterward, she could not guess.

Aggie came to her and began to pin up Jemima's supposedly forward hair. "You ought to put Mr. Gamon and his two lady friends out of your head as you'll never see them again," she said. "They were up to a bit of nonsense, chargin' the duke good money after bad for their dubious services. After all, are you to remake yourself into another person? How long could you keep it up?"

"That's very true," Jemima said, as she'd been thinking the same thing herself. "Even if I wanted to change everything about myself, I couldn't keep it up. I bet they knew that all along. They thought they could put a temporary mask on me, and then my real nature would be an amusing revelation to the gentleman after the wedding."

Aggie snorted. "Surprise, Lord Bamboozled—I am not nearly as pliable and genial as you were led to believe! I am also starving and will eat your whole roasted beef by myself."

They both collapsed in laughter over the idea and it was some minutes before they could regain their composure and carry on with dressing.

"I do not know what I was thinking," Jemima said. "Why was I even considering anything those three people said? I must just be myself and if there is no gentleman who takes to it, then I will become a spinster. I shan't mind it, I do not think."

"Nor I," Aggie said. "You might convince the duke to give you Bellview Cottage and then you could ride round the woods like the hellion Mr. Gamon claims you are."

"You could pin my hair up any which way or not even bother at all, as I would not have many visitors."

"You could hire a butler I can ride roughshod over, unlike Mr. Harkinson, whose got the eyes of a hawk and the temperament of a badger."

"And you could visit your father for Sunday dinners, as I will not need to be dressed to go anywhere. I will eat cold meats in my nightdress on Sunday evenings."

They both nodded contentedly over this picture of household felicity.

"Aye, we'll see what happens, but you have options," Aggie said. "That's the important thing."

Jemima nodded. "This evening will be the real test of how it will go for me, I suppose. I am to glide into Almack's and face down the Patronesses in my subdued dress that is meant to subdue my hair."

Aggie examined the dress that had been selected for the evening. It was a very dark green silk. She sighed and said, "Not the lively colors we were hoping for."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Martin J. Harkinson, butler to the Duke and Duchess of Eddleston, did his best not to tremble. The moment that had been inexorably inching closer had positively arrived. Lady Jemima was to make her first real foray into the wider world.

She had made her curtsy to the queen without any disaster unfolding, but what did that signify? The young lady could not talk or do things the way she liked when she'd been in the palace. But now, she was to be set loose to say or do anything at all!

It had haunted him all summer that he'd got himself in rather deep with The League. They had all developed a picture of Lady Jemima that was not entirely accurate.

Or at all accurate.

But what else could he have done? It had been quite natural that he'd spent years extolling her gentleness and claiming she exemplified all the feminine graces. His pride would not allow him to explain that she was a red-haired furie who could turn the house upside down. He could never get out the words that she rode her horse like a Tartar, said the most untoward things, ate like a starving soldier, and if her laugh did not shatter a person's ears it would certainly shatter their nerves.

He was a fraud. He'd always known he was a fraud, right from the beginning. His father was a miner from Cornwall and he had never revealed that fact. As far and the duke and duchess knew it, his father was a schoolmaster.

The truth was, when he'd been a boy his actual schoolmaster had encouraged him to look higher than the mines. Mr. Harkinson had seen the state of his father each night, dirty and exhausted with no hope of things ever getting better than they were, and so he had looked higher.

He'd been diligent in his studies, had taken on the schoolmaster's more refined accent, relocated to a northern county, and found a position as a footman in the old duke's household. He'd worked his way up from there.

Once he made enough of an income, he began sending money to his now elderly mother and father. He'd helped them purchase a small plot of land and paid for the building of a decent cottage. He sent them money for their daily expenditures. After a lifetime of toil, they were finally comfortable. As far as anybody in the house knew it, the letters that went out were for a charity he supported. He'd done right by his parents, and yet all along he felt like a fraud because he'd never revealed who they were—the servants all thought they were dead!

If the junior staff he directed knew he was the son of a miner and had grown up in a ramshackle two-room house with no running water, what would they think of him? What would the duke think of him? What would anybody think of him?

Now he'd taken his fraudulence one step further—he'd been dishonest with the very men he respected most, the members of The League. He'd lied and lied and lied about Lady Jemima for years.

Mrs. Ramsey, Mrs. Lodewell, and Mr. Gamon were supposed to fix that problem. They were supposed to rectify all of those unfortunate aspects of Lady Jemima and turn her into the lady he'd so loftily described all these years.

It did not look as if they had, though. Those three people had left the house decidedly downcast and Lady Jemima did not seem much changed.

Now, she would go to Almack's. Nobody from The League would be in attendance, naturally. But they would hear about it.

Whatever went on in that storied institution would be talked about the following day within hearing of servants. Then the news, whatever it was, would pass from ear to ear, wending its way through London. A housemaid was the sister of a lady's maid who had a cousin who was a valet who knew a coachman who knew a steward who was friends with a secretary and on and on. The servants of lords and ladies were one big spiderweb of connections.

The spiderweb always found the examination of ladies just arrived to Town a very popular topic. A newly arrived daughter of a duke would be of the highest interest.

Lady Jemima was certain to do something untoward or outrageous. It was in her nature.

Eventually, the news would reach the ears of the other members. Somebody would say what they heard in the spiderweb, and all would be known.

How would he explain himself?

Worse, The League had identified the perfect match for Lady Jemima. A certain Duke of Barstow. But the match was thought up from what they believed the lady was, not what she actually was. It was only he that understood how ill-suited Lady Jemima and the staid and serious duke really were.

The walls were closing in on him—it was as if he'd ended up in the mines he'd worked so hard to escape!

The duke and duchess were already downstairs, and the carriage was outside the doors.

Just then, Lady Jemima appeared at the top of the staircase.

Mr. Harkinson found himself rather surprised at her appearance. It was really rather good. Surprisingly good. She was a pretty lass, but she'd spent much of her life in muddy riding clothes or otherwise appearing disheveled.

Not so this moment.

Aggie, her annoyingly pert lady's maid, had apparently put some effort into it. Lady Jemima's hair was exquisitely done and somehow looked a more dignified shade of red next to the somber tone of her dress.

She looked, if he dared to think it, rather regal. Her head was held high and she appeared very composed and serious. It was as if she took on the mien of a young Queen Elizabeth, who, after all, had been a redhead herself.

Perhaps all his fears had been overblown. Perhaps the gravity of coming to Town for one's first season had been realized and had tamped down any of the unfortunate qualities that Mrs. Ramsey, Mrs. Lodewell, and Mr. Gamon had got nowhere with.

Lady Jemima suddenly winked at him and skipped down the stairs. "Papa, Mama, I have made a decision about my future. I will present myself as entirely myself and the gentlemen of this town can like it or lump it. If they lump it, I wish to retire to Bellview Cottage."

Amidst the frowns from the duke and heavy sighs of the duchess, Mr. Harkinson reached out and steadied himself on the doorframe.

She was to be herself! It was precisely what he had feared.

"No need to be predicting spinsterhood quite yet, Jemima," the duke said. "Harkinson, you are looking exceedingly pale. Retire early, Jimmy can let us in when we come back."

Mr. Harkinson nodded, not the least surprised that he looked pale. He felt as if all the blood had drained from his body and his bones were making a heroic effort to hold his empty shell upright.

The Leaguewas to meet tomorrow afternoon and his secret about Lady Jemima was about to come out.

What would they know by then?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper Pennington, Duke of Barstow, understood his duties. When he'd taken on the mantle of duke, he'd noticed it as a heavy thing on his shoulders. His youth, he knew, was over.

He was not alone in it, but he must manage it all. He was responsible for it all. He had a man for almost every duty—a steward, a solicitor, a stablemaster, a kennel manager, a master of the hunt, an accountant, a secretary, a valet, a butler—whatever was to be done, there was somebody to do it once he'd told them to.

There was an never-ending list of tasks to delegate—estate matters, the care of poor relations, answering the piles of invitations that battered his doors, the occasional summons from the queen—gone were the days of slipping off to the local tavern and wiling an evening away.

And then, there was the one thing he did not have a man for. The thing he must do himself. He must have an heir.

He'd put it off for years, but it really was time. He'd given thought to the sort of lady he would confer the title of duchess upon. She must be worthy of it, first and foremost. She must be exquisitely mannered, elegantly dressed, she must have the most selective taste, and have the makings of a perfect hostess. She must be reticent, but not to the point of rudeness.

She must not mind his trips abroad, and that he would go with a few select friends, leaving her behind. She must not mind separate bedchambers, as any self-respecting duchess would not wish for anything as pedestrian as sleeping in the same bed with her duke. She must be malleable and adapt to his mode of living, which was formal and regulated.

He did not suppose it would be terribly difficult to locate such a paragon, he must just put some effort into it. Therefore, he would attend all those events of the season that he usually avoided in favor of his club.

Almack's was one place he had long avoided in favor of his club.

He found it a rather ridiculous institution and everything about it done badly, particularly the refreshments. A few bottles of decent wine would not go amiss. Further, was one to conclude there was a sudden shortage of meats?

The offerings of dry cake and sour lemonade were what one would expect at a children's party. Assuming one did not like those children very much.

What on earth were they spending their club fees on?

Jasper supposed the Patronesses meant to say: "We are so elevated that we need not even make an effort—we dare you to complain about our meager offerings."

He had dared to complain the last time he'd attended, and none of them had said much about it. He'd even inquired of them who made these substandard arrangements. Nobody had owned it.

While he still got his invitation to a voucher each year, he suspected they were rather relieved that he did not actually take it up.

They would find their relief flown out a window this year, as he had paid for his voucher and purchased a ticket to attend this very night.

"I suppose I should wear one of my better coats," Jasper said. "I must keep in mind that while I am expecting some lady to impress, I ought to make an effort to impress too. Any lady I would find suitable will have high standards."

Randolph, the duke's valet, nodded gravely. "The new dark blue with the gold buttons," he said. He paused, examining a neckcloth for any imperfections. "So this is to be the year? We will have a duchess installed shortly?"

"I expect so," the duke said. "Assuming there is a lady worthy."

"You're going to stick to your list of things, then?"

Jasper suppressed a sigh. Randolph remained dubious over his requirements for a wife. It was a rare valet who showed he was dubious over any opinion of his employer, but then Randolph had been with him since he was sixteen. If Jasper had any ideas of setting boundaries and setting a tone between them, he should have done it then. As his valet would say—that ship had sailed.

"I only say," Randolph went on, "what about passion? What if you are to clap eyes on some lady and feel your heart go pitter-patter and then you find she's not up to snuff? At least, not up to your very long laundry list of snuff."

"I am a duke, Randolph. My heart never has gone pitter-patter, as you so charmingly term it, and it will never have the audacity to try it out."

Randolph shrugged and Jasper well knew it was his silent opposition. It was not very surprising; Randolph was a terrible romantic and was forever in love from afar with some lady he'd laid eyes on. Currently, it was an actress he'd seen at Drury Lane who'd played a very minor role as a kitchen maid in some play or other. She had, apparently, eyes that could stop a man's heart. Jasper did not understand how his valet could have even seen their color from the back of the pit.

"Well," Randolph said, "I reckon when word gets out that you're wife-shopping, the ladies will descend upon you in hordes."

"Why would anybody know what I am planning?" Jasper asked.

Randolph snorted. "'Course it'll get out. It's probably already out. You ordered seven new coats, you've accepted invitations you never accept, and you're going to Almack's—it's all a dead giveaway. The whole house knows what you're up to. And then, they do have their afternoons off."

"Their afternoons off? I do not follow you."

"What do they do on afternoons off? They stroll round with acquaintances, most of whom are servants in other houses. They talk about interesting news, and then that acquaintance goes home and talks about it, then a lady's maid picks it up and tells her mistress and then the mistress takes it from drawing room to drawing room. ‘Course there's always the odd valet who will traffic in such things and then his lord takes the news to his club. I, myself, do not indulge in the habit. Often."

Jasper had never considered how gossip traveled. If he had considered it, he did not think he would have imagined his valet's description of the thing.

"I don't like it," he said. "I do not wish for my personal plans to be public knowledge."

"Well then, you shouldn't have become a duke," Randolph said, looking highly amused by his own wit.

"I will tell Jacobs to inform the household that they are not to speak about me to anyone outside the house."

Randolph guffawed. "That butler will do as he's asked, and he'll be grave as a bishop doing it. The whole staff will nod gravely back. Everybody will recognize the gravity of the situation. Then, they'll all carry on as they have been, eagerly waiting for their afternoon off so they might meet their friends and tell them the amusing story of how their duke don't want to be talked about."

It was confounding. Did he not have any authority at all?

"I see. Will it be necessary to cancel afternoons off, then?" he asked sternly. Really, he did not see how he could do it, but he might at least threaten it. He must have control of his staff.

"Now that would be a right rum situation. First, you'd find all your food burned, then you'd find the maids were only halfheartedly dusting and the laundress was sending your clothes back unwashed, then the staff would shrink by degrees until there's hardly a body in the place. And what would be the result of it? Everybody in Town would know the Duke of Barstow is a beast who won't give his people an afternoon off. You can't win with that one."

"Then what can I do, pray?"

Seeming to see his consternation, Randolph said, "Pay no mind to what the servants are all yammering about. You've got a wife to find."

That was the first bit of sense Jasper had heard. He did have a wife to find and, as every elevated lady in Town would attend Almack's, she would likely be there.