Chapter One

Monday, 24 April 1826

The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London

Half past four in the afternoon

L audanum. That tea had to be laced with laudanum.

Lady Mary Caudale sat a bit straighter on the cabriolet armchair in front of Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s desk, watching the partially veiled woman take yet another sip of her tea, her calm silence maddening. Mary’s gaze followed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s efficient movements as she added another small lump of sugar to the liquid, stirring thoughtfully. The bone china of the cup and saucer, with its delicate hand-painted blue, pink, and green floral design, had to be the finest Mary had ever seen, better even than her mother’s prized sets.

And the Dowager Duchess of Kirkstone did not tolerate the mediocre in anything.

Not even her daughter.

Mary had failed on that score rather spectacularly, which is why she now sat in the office of a gaming hell, with her brother, the Duke of Kirkstone, pacing behind her. Kit, a mountain of a man, had a scowl that could bend iron, adding to Mary’s tension. She felt as if her scalp itched and her skin crawled as she waited for the proprietress of the infamous Lyon’s Den to do something... anything... other than stir her tea and study the page of foolscap on the desk in front of her. Calmly. Placidly. As if Mary’s world and reputation were not about to be shredded.

Mary’s hands tightened on the reticule in her lap.

A tiny motion, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s head raised a bit. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. We are here to find a solution to your present difficulties, not promulgate them.”

“I just do not see—”

Kit growled, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a hand, palm facing Mary. “Patience, child, for a few moments.” She then placed that hand on the page and took a deep breath. She glanced at Kit. “Please, Your Grace, sit.” She gestured to the other armchair in front of her desk. “You are making your sister’s anxiety much worse, and you are beginning to annoy me.”

Kit paused, then eased into the chair, even as one leg continued to bounce. He looked so much like an Irish wolfhound pretending to be a lapdog that Mary almost smiled.

Still, she felt for him. The man, yet only eight and twenty, had been the Duke of Kirkstone less than two of the most eventful years either of them could remember, beginning with the death of their father. What had followed had been a maelstrom of trials leading to this moment, including Mary’s flight from their home near the Scottish border, Kit’s search for her, his deathly illness, his unexpected marriage to Lady Elizabeth Ashton—one of the ton’s brightest diamonds—and the acquisition of not one but three children into his guardianship. Three children, none of whom belonged to Kit and Beth, although they claimed to have sired one of them.

A claim intended to keep Mary from ruination and shame.

A carefully devised plan... which now seemed to be in the process of dissolving into tatters.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned her attention to Mary. “It is absolutely vital that I have the truth—all of it. Nothing held back.”

Mary chewed her lower lip and forced herself to breathe. She nodded.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Kit, and Mary would have given twenty pounds to be able to see the expression behind the veil.

“This... vicar. He is the source of the rumors about the children. And he is the father of one of them.”

Kit and Mary both nodded.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon focused on Mary again. “He seduced you.”

“I would not say—”

“He seduced her. My father-in-law convinced me not to call him out.”

Mary’s ire flashed. “And me, thank you very much. I did not want you to live with killing a man because I was a foolish idiot.”

Kit snapped toward her. “I should never have left you alone after Father died. You were too young. I failed in my responsibilities to you as your brother and as your duke.”

“I was not a child!”

“You were sixteen!”

“And do you not think you have done penance enough? Claiming Mina to be yours and Beth’s? Ruining her reputation by saying you and Beth had been inappropriate before marriage?”

“It was her plan. And it should have worked. We were careful.”

“Too many cooks spoil the broth, brother. Too many people knew.” She gestured toward the foolscap on the desk. “Including that bloody vicar!”

“I should have shot him when I had the chance.”

“You would have hanged.”

“Parliament would not hang a duke over one reprobate vicar.”

Mary glared at him.

“Are you two quite finished?”

They both looked at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Mary nodded.

“I must say, your family dinners must be remarkably entertaining.”

“And you have not even met our mother,” Kit grumbled.

Mary smirked.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon did not. “According to my sources, however, the vicar is not the only motivator behind the rumors. There are also concerns, Lady Mary, about your own behavior in the park toward the child”—she glanced down—“that you call Mina, instead of Lady Catherine, as one would the daughter of a duke. That your attitude toward her has been far too familiar than that of aunt to niece.”

Because she is my child. Mary chewed her lower lip again. “I have found it difficult—”

“No doubt. But the rumors have spread like the Great Fire through London. Thus your concerns about your upcoming season—”

“Our mother, the dowager duchess, or my mother-in-law, the Duchess of Kennet, would have presented her—”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted him. “And there is the matter of your appointment to India, so that you and your wife will be leaving shortly—”

“Lady Mary will be in the care of either my mother or my in-laws, who—”

“But she has received no invitations, not even a notice from the queen—”

“We had hoped—”

“Kit!” Mary’s temper flared again. “Would you shut it? You are merely repeating what she already knows. Can we move on to whatever reason it is you brought me here? If you think my reputation is flinders now, wait till one of the dragons spy me coming out of this place!”

Silence descended. Kit clutched his hands together, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His face had paled, the bouncing stopped.

Mary leaned toward him and grasped his forearm. “I know you think this is all your fault and you are desperate to fix it. But some things may never be reparable. Perhaps I was never meant to have a season, no matter how much either of us wanted it.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat. “Lady Mary, your brother contacted me precisely because he believes I can help. So do I.”

Mary straightened. “How?”

“A successful season has many goals, including establishing your place among the Beau Monde. But the primary goal is and always has been a betrothal to a reputable family. I can arrange that.” She opened a drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper. “I have three gentlemen who would be suitable prospects. All from good families, reasonable men of good nature and form, whom you could meet in confidence. Once a courtship is arranged and a suit begun, the rumors will dissipate when it is clear the facts would not be an impediment to a beneficial match. You and your suitor can then move through the ton with relative ease.”

“And why would any of these gentlemen agree to meet with someone whose reputation has been besmirched? To meet with me?”

“All three are in substantial debt to me, and all three have agreed to the resolution of that debt through a marriage of my choice.”

Mary’s stomach tightened. “A barter. With my brother paying you and covering the debts.”

“An exchange, not unlike that which occurs in many arranged marriages.”

The room suddenly turned hot, her head light. Mary glared at Kit. “You mean to sell me. Sell me to the highest bidder. To a man you do not know and have never heard of.”

He looked up at her, his face tight. “Mary—”

She stood, holding on to the chair for support. “I cannot do this. I cannot believe—” Mary strode toward the door and jerked it open.

And froze.

The gaming floor of the establishment lay before her, overflowing with men in various stages of high emotion. Red-faced, some shouting, spittle flying as they placed wagers at the numerous tables or with each other—in one corner, a man attempted to balance steins on his head, as those around him wagered against him. Pints of ale and rum lined tables and trays carried by servers, filling the air with their pungent aroma, which blended with the scents of old sweat, fried meat, and fresh bread. Calls from dealers resulted in bellows of success and moans of loss. In a far alcove, music from a violin and harp soared over the crowd, an odd juxtaposition to the raucous mob.

Mary had only been in London a few weeks, but she had been in Hyde Park often with her brother and his wife, as well as her sister-in-law’s brothers and parents—the Duke and Duchess of Kennet—her new family. Well-known, they attracted a great deal of attention during any outing, and Mary had been introduced to a wide scale of the ton , from the lowest to the highest, save the king and queen.

Now she recognized many of them in the chaotic array before her. Gentlemen who had been polite and staid in the park now punched and shoved each other, sang wildly off-key to a melody no one else heard, and threatened dealers with useless claims.

Mary felt her brother behind her. “There are no saints among the ton , Mary. Not you. Not me. Not them. Even if your reputation remained flawless, one of them would be at your door with flowers. And you know none of them now, merely who they appear to be in public. I assure you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon knows more about the ton than any living person. We must trust her to bring you no further harm.”

But what about you, brother?

Mary sighed, stepped back into the office, and closed the door.

Lord Thaddeus Ephraim Bolton, second son, Earl of Crookham, blinked, convinced he had hallucinated the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He continued to stare, long after she had stepped back into the office of Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.

Thad glanced briefly at George Brothers, his best friend, a man who currently had two pints of ale stacked on his head, attempting to add a third to the perilous balancing act. “Did you see that?” he called out over the din of the room.

George gritted his teeth. “Saw nothing but your ugly mug. What are you going on about?”

“That woman. Blonde. Beautiful. Angelic. Coming out and going back into the Black Widow’s office.”

“Ain’t no women on this floor but the ladybirds come from upstairs.”

“You do know there is a ladies’ part of this club, do you not? Actual members of the Beau Monde who gamble and dine here? Also upstairs.”

George wavered and hesitated with the third stein. “Yeah, but they never step foot down here. Wouldn’t want to see their men behaving like this.” A cloud of blue smoke from a nearby table wafted by, and George waved it way, causing the two steins to totter on his head.

Thad watched as they settled again. “Like one of them losing twenty pounds trying to balance three pints on his head?”

“Ain’t lost yet.”

Thad turned to stare at the door again. “You have not done it yet either. Did you put something in my rum?”

George hesitated. “What are you talking about, mate?”

“Opium. Laudanum. Something to make me see a beautiful woman.”

“Ain’t no drug on God’s little green earth that good.” George scowled, sat the third stein on a table and removed the other two. George glanced at the door on the far side of the room. “Are you sure it was a woman? With your eyesight, it could have been a blonde horse for all I know.”

Thad scoffed. “Hardly. Even with only one good eye, I know a beautiful woman when I see one.”

“Given your taste and lack of experience with women, I would not be so sure.” He held out his hands as if weighing two options. “Upstairs doxy? Lady of the ton ? Bluestocking? Dowry princess? Which one would young Thad choose?” George picked up his coat, which had been draped over a chair at the table and plucked a snuffbox from one pocket. He flicked it open, took out a pinch, and inhaled it.

“Giving up?”

“Taking a break. My neck’s cramping.” George replaced the box, then arched his back and twisted his head to one side. The resulting cracks could be heard over the noise in the room.

Thad winced. “Does that not hurt?”

“Only the first time.” He twisted again. More cracks. “The second feels pretty good.”

“I will take your word on that.”

George rolled his shoulders. “Now what woman were you going on about?”

Thad pointed at the door to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private sanctuary. “Blonde, lovely, stepped out, looked around, went back inside.”

“Wise woman. Would you want to wander among these fools?”

“But what is she doing here?”

“Obviously meeting with the Lyon. No one goes in that room unless she’s there.”

Thad felt like punching his friend. “But why ?”

“What does she look like? Besides blonde and beautiful.”

“An angel.”

“Specifics would be nice.”

“A perfect angel. Glorious, perfectly coiffed, golden hair. Taller than most, I think. Dark eyes, probably brown. Flawless skin. Curves, dear God. Round in a way to make a man yearn to take her—”

“As if you would know.”

“Rotter. Just because I do not bed every woman who wanders by like you do.”

“You don’t bed any of them. Tell me more.”

Thad grinned. “She was wearing this green day gown with a spencer, nice frills around the hem. Sweet little fascinator with matching ribbons and lace.”

George tilted his head to one side, studying Thad. “When did you become a modiste? Are you sure you enjoy the company of women?”

Thad coughed a laugh. “Bastard. I have sisters and a mother who is too busy with my brother, the heir, to escort them. I go. I listen. It can be rather entertaining.”

“She was alone?”

Thad paused, grimacing. “No. There was a man. Also blond. Huge. Like a boulder. Think he could be her husband?”

“Doubtful. Men don’t usually bring their wives to meet with the Lyon. I’d guess a brother.” George took a steadying breath and reached for the first pint again. “Maybe one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s marital traps. Better watch your back. How much do you owe her now?”

“The Lyon? Around two thousand pounds.”

“And the others?”

Thad shrugged, unwilling to admit exactly how much he owed others. “Another three. Maybe four. Various places.”

“Any that might want to collect in some currency other than blunt?”

Thad did not want to be reminded of that possibility either. “I have heard mumblings.”

George gave a low whistle. “Does your father know?”

“Think I would be standing here if he did. He has already threatened to indenture me to some ship owner going to America.”

George’s brows furrowed in concentration as he balanced the first two steins. The gamblers around them grew, watching George closely. “Isn’t six and twenty a bit old for indenture? And a complete waste of that fancy education?”

“Hardly the point. He has a cousin there making blunt enough for a king. Dear father thinks I should learn a trade.”

“Horrifying.”

“My mother thinks so. Fortunately. Of course, Father would not want me to do that here where his friends could be witness to my lack of success. I mentioned trying for a position at Oxford, but that sent him into apoplexy.”

George reached for the third pint. “Thus the move to America. You really should let me pay off the Lyon.”

“What’s the wager?” a man called out.

“Twenty pounds!” George returned.

Money changed hands, the crowd growing.

“You done it before?” another called.

“Twice!” George rang out.

“Liar. Move it a little to the left.”

George gave Thad a sour look. “Says the man set to lose twenty pounds if I succeed.”

“Would I do that to a friend?”

“Without hesitation.”

“I am crushed you have so little faith in me.”

“I only have faith in your twenty pounds and your ability to lose every wager.”

“Not every wager.”

“Just most. You really should stop gambling.”

“According to the man with two steins of ale on his head.”

The crowd swelled. More money changed hands. Catcalls bounced back and forth, depending on which way the bets flowed. The third stein settled on top of the first two, and George slowly released it. They tottered but held.

Thad backed away carefully, well out of splashing distance. “I told Father you would come with me to America.”

All three pints crashed to the floor, showering anyone close enough with the foamy ale. Cries of dismay—and victory—rose up around them. George glowered at Thad, who shrugged. “You have to work on your concentration, my friend.”

The crowd dispersed with some laughter and grumbles, and George scooped up the steins and gave them to a passing server, who returned a few moments later with a towel for George and a mop for the floor. George cleaned up the best he could, then he slipped into his coat and moved with Thad to another table.

As they sat, George pulled his wallet from his coat, but Thad waved him off. “Forget it.”

George replaced the wallet, then ran his hands through his damp hair, smoothing the curls. “You know I have it.”

“I mean all of it.”

“I know.”

Thad had met George at Eton more than ten years before, when they both discovered they liked bareknuckle boxing as much as they did their studies. Thad helped George with the books, tutoring him in literature and astronomy, and George helped Thad with stances and maneuvers in the ring that compensated for his lack of vision and depth perception. George’s father, an industrialist with a number of mills in the north, had built a fortune greater than any one member of the ton could dream of. They would never be true members of the elite, but George’s father had high hopes that more than one ton mother would look at George and his brothers—and their money—as a means to provide for her daughter, convinced that the social disdain for trade only extended so far.

George took out his snuffbox again. “Was your father serious about America?”

Thad shrugged. “Who knows? He considered me useless long before my brother married. Now that my position as spare in the family lineage has been usurped by my nephew, I am unsure either of them care what happens to me.”

“You are the second son of an earl.”

“Correct. With a minimal allowance and no prospects. You, my friend, have a much brighter future than I do. I cannot imagine the Church would want me or the military tolerate me. Since my mother will not deign to introduce me to any of her friends or their daughters, I suspect I’ll spend a lot more time here.”

“Maybe you should ask the Lyon for an introduction before she swindles you into one of her marital traps to pay off your debts.”

Thad looked again at the office door. “Unfortunately, I do not think many of her clients will look like my angelic hallucination.”

George ran his thumb over the lid of his snuffbox. “I don’t recall you paying much attention to looks.”

Thad glowered. “I asked you never to mention her.”

“I didn’t say a name.”

“We both knew who you meant.”

“Lydia.”

Thad leaned back and crossed his arms, lips pressed together. He would not—refused to—engage in this memory.

It arrived anyway.

Lady Lydia Southworth, his bluestocking queen. Books and science experiments. He had rescued her from her first season’s awkwardness and ridicule with lectures at the Royal Society, plays, and nightly walks to discuss the stars, her sleepy-headed maid trailing behind them. Then her father had returned from Africa to discover his daughter being courted by a skint second son. Three weeks later, Lydia had married a fifty-five-year-old widowed earl with a large income and three sons.

“I only mentioned her to remind you that she was not beautiful. There was a reason her father married her off to an old man with poor eyesight.”

“To me she was lovely.”

“Precisely. Thus my doubts about your ‘perfect angel.’” George waved over a server who set two pints of ale on the table. “There’s going to be a great match, bare knuckles, at Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium around six. On me.”

Thad slowly uncrossed his arms. “I do not owe them much. Yet.”

George saluted him with his ale. “As my da always says, a man needs a goal.”