Chapter Two

The dedicated readers of L. Sterling might have been surprised to find their favourite author in such an unfashionable part of London, in an apartment, no less.

L. Sterling was, as the critics had speculated, a pseudonym. The author of Rosalie's Trials and various other books was a young man by the name of Timothy Rutherford, a mere second son, a simple Mr.

Timothy didn't much care what Society thought of his home. His income consisted of his money from the writing, and a small allowance from his mother's fortune. Not much, but enough to keep himself going. It allowed him to write, as he'd always wanted to, instead of clerking at some dreary law office or ingratiating himself with his father or older sibling. They'd make him jump through hoops for his money, and no mistake.

No, this method allowed him a little pride. He liked his apartment well enough and got on well with his landlady. Nobody knew he was L. Sterling, and even if someone put two and two together – Sterling was his mother's maiden name, and lilies were his favourite flower – well, it was a common enough name.

His little study was crammed with books, with a space cleared by the window just large enough to admit a small desk and chair. Crumpled bits of paper scattered across the floor, and a cold, half-drunk cup of tea stood forgotten on the edge of the desk.

The second volume of Rosalie's Trials was very well received, but he found that the third volume was coming along slowly. How to end the story in a satisfying way?

He sat back, crumpling up yet another piece of paper and tossing it onto the floor.

It's no good, he thought miserably. He took off his spectacles, wire-rimmed and round, and rubbed his sore eyes.

Timothy did not look much like the heroes he described in his books. Timothy himself was of average height, slimly built in a way a person might generously describe as wiry, with dark blond hair that would not go into the popular styles, and large green eyes.

As far as he could tell, his readers like strapping, classically handsome heroes, who did manly things like excessive horse riding and boxing. Timothy wryly flexed his own hands, white and elegant and decidedly writer's hands.

He didn't have time to sit and puzzle over Rosalie's next adventure, though. He had to get himself to the club to meet his friend. As far as he knew, the infamous Dunleigh will had finally been read, meaning that his friend William might now be excessively rich. How nice.

Shrugging himself into a somewhat patchy coat and clapping last season's hat on his head, Timothy firmly put Rosalie out of his mind, and headed out into the gray January day, collar turned up against the drizzling rain.

It will be good to know that somebody has received good news recently. I bet the Willoughby family are celebrating as we speak.

***

"That can't be right," Timothy said incredulously. "You must all marry?"

William looked exhausted. He'd drunk one large glass of brandy before Timothy had got there and was well into his second. There were dark bags under his eyes, and lines on his face that hadn't been there the last time Timothy saw him. They'd been friends for longer than he could remember, and William had had plenty to say about his father's cruelty.

This, however, was a new low.

"We can get some of it, if we don't all marry, but not all of it," William explained wearily. "But we can't get a penny unless Katherine marries. She must marry first. We've got a year."

"A year to find someone, or…"

"A year to get married."

Timothy blew out a heavy breath. That didn't leave a great deal of time. In London, the Season was just ramping up. That gave at least six months to find a person, as well as to organize the wedding and get the ceremony over with. For all of them. The Season was called the Marriage Mart for a reason, but to have a deadline like this was… well, it was something new.

"It's… it's doable, is it not?" Timothy heard himself say, somewhat lamely. No doubt they'd considered this, as well as all the angles.

William shrugged weakly. "I hadn't considered marriage. I have too many responsibilities, and I intended to spend a year or two as Duke of Dunleigh to acclimate myself before even thinking about marrying. I wanted to marry, of course, but to be forced into it…" he broke off, shaking his head. "Alexander hoped to marry an heiress, but on his own terms. Henry had never thought of marriage at all, as far as I know. And as for Katherine, do you know what she looked forward to most out of all this? Freedom. She longed for freedom. And now she'll never see a day of it."

A lump rose to Timothy's throat at the mention of Katherine.

He'd been friends with the Willoughby family for many years. Friends, of course, was a loose term.

Henry, the traveler, was somewhat aloof in London, preferring his friends abroad, and Alexander gambled too deeply and drank too much for Timothy's liking. Timothy and William were twenty-six, the same age, and had the most in common.

One thing they had in common was that the late Duke had not liked either of them.

Oh, and that Timothy knew exactly what it was like to have a father so deeply disappointed in you. He didn't want to bring that up now, of course. With the contents of the will, he assumed that William knew that already.

He'd only really known Katherine from a distance, but that was enough to discover that she was the most beautiful and interesting girl he'd never quite met.

Not helpful, Timothy told himself sternly. Aloud, he said, "Shall we go somewhere more private to talk?"

William shot him a quick grateful look. "Yes, I'd like that."

Their club of choice was White's, coincidentally the only one that Timothy was granted membership to. It was considered rather important that a man be clubbable, although he didn't much enjoy the process of attending clubs. His father and older brother would be mortified if he wasn't a member of at least one. Even Henry Willoughby, the man with his mind always elsewhere, was a member of White's.

The place was crowded, as it usually was at this time of day. It was all too easy for something to be overheard and repeated. Timothy led the way to a small alcove, just large enough for two men to sit on opposite armchairs, with a low coffee table in between. William drank down his own brandy in one large gulp, and snatched up another, following Timothy.

"I don't want this talked about," William muttered, settling down. "I know you'll be discreet, of course, but if this gets out… well, we'll be bombarded by hopeful mammas and fortune hunters. Alexander's a fool, Henry might well be stubborn enough to refuse to marry altogether, and as for me… well, I don't have much faith in my own judgement, to be frank."

Timothy leaned forward, propping up his elbows on his knees.

"That's your father talking, Will. Your judgement is fine."

William smiled bleakly. "Thank you, Timothy, that's kind of you to say. My father clearly thought that we'd all go unmarried and let the Willoughby name die out. Or else he just wanted to punish us. A bit of both, perhaps. I'm tired of trying to work out what he wanted, what he was thinking." He paused and gave a short laugh. "Even from beyond the grave, he's controlling us. It's impressive, when you think about it."

Impressive was not the word that sprang to mind, in Timothy's opinion. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"I hate to speak ill of the dead, but the man was evil. I'm sorry, William."

William shook his head. "Don't be. I'm worried most about Katherine. Out of all of us, she's the one who must marry, or else we'll all be paupers. I know exactly why Father set up the will in that way. We were all disappointments to him, but Katherine was the one he struggled most to break. I suppose he thought he'd manage it this way."

That lump rose to Timothy's throat again. He swallowed hard, trying to fight past the surge of anger he felt towards the man. How dared he ruin his children's life in this way? What was it all for?

The answer presented itself at once. The late Duke of Dunleigh believed that his children belonged to him, in the same way that his wife and house did, and it irked him that he could not control them the way he thought he could. The will was a final effort to do that.

Unless they all marry for love, Timothy thought. Not that that's likely to happen.

"Do you think Katherine will refuse to marry?" he heard himself say.

William shook his head. "No, not with all of our futures at stake. She's too kind. She may be careless with her own funds, but not with ours. It just means that her inheritance will never really be hers. It'll belong to her husband right away."

"Unless he agrees to let her keep it and signs a few legal documents."

William gave a hoarse laugh. "And who would agree to that? No, I'm afraid that if this gets out, she'll be surrounded by fortune hunters. Please, Timothy, you must join the Season this year, help me keep an eye on her. I can't trust Alexander to stay focused, or Henry. She's my only sister, and I do worry about her so much."

Timothy swallowed hard. His head was reeling, and his heart clenched worryingly.

Stop it, he scolded himself. Be honorable. Protect your friend's sister, can't you? Put your own feelings aside – the woman scarcely knows you.

He smiled weakly at William. "Of course, if that's what you want. I'll do my best. I can't promise to protect her properly, but…"

"No, no, that's fine. I'll feel better knowing that you're looking after her, too. As if she has a fourth brother."

"Yes," Timothy murmured bleakly. "A fourth brother."

"The thing is," William continued, rubbing his eyes, "she's twenty years old. This will be her third Season. She's hardly old, but you know how cruel Society can be. Even the doddery old men think they have a right to marry the eighteen-year-old debutantes. I'm worried that Katherine will simply marry the first man she meets. I'm afraid that she won't get many offers, and that she'll settle, for our sake. She's my sister, Timothy. I love her, and I can't bear the idea of her being unhappy. But I don't know what to do."

Timothy reached forward and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. The good thing about being a writer was that words were always at one's disposal. Usually, at least.

When one had a piece of paper and pen to hand.

Now, though, it seemed that Timothy had hit a stroke of luck, and the words came easily.

"Katherine is stronger than you think," he said firmly. "She's clever, and thoughtful, and a good judge of people. Your siblings and you need to be closer now, more than ever before. You're all in the same boat, and your marriages will likely take place very close together. You're the head of the family now, William. You need to draw everyone together and present a united front. Your father spent his life pushing you all apart, but he never succeeded, did he? You can draw together now."

William swallowed hard, thinking it over. He nodded slowly, and Timothy felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his chest.

"You're right, Timothy. This is father's last attempt to control us, but if we take control of the situation first, we'll pull through." He swigged back his brandy in one gulp. "I'm glad we met up today."

Timothy smiled weakly, trying not to think about Katherine Willoughby walking down the aisle with a fortune hunter.

"Well, a problem shared is a problem halved."

I could marry her, he thought, and a strange tingling feeling rolled down his spine.