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Chapter 1

Despite his time serving in the army, Nicholas Kendrick, Duke of Harrington, had never fought in battle, nor had he ever killed a man.

That statistic was about to change—in the halls of Parliament. Nicholas had spent weeks preparing his speech on increasing the amount of funds sent to Ireland but had only managed to make it through half of it before Lord Rayleigh's bored and nasally voice interrupted him.

"We are funding an unprecedented amount of soup kitchens as it is," Lord Rayleigh said with a sigh, as if the topic of Ireland had run its course years ago, no matter the fact that people were still starving there. "There are work houses for those who cannot afford food. Besides, we all know the words of Sir Charles Trevelyan, ‘God has sent this calamity to teach the Irish a lesson.' You may be too young to understand this, but people don't learn lessons if they aren't allowed to fail. And how can they fail with all the money we are pouring into relief for them?"

Fail? Nicholas hadn't been talking about failing. Children were starving, and the whole country was riddled with grief. "Perhaps, Lord Rayleigh, we are the ones who need to learn a lesson. A lesson on compassion and charity."

Immediately the room erupted—men muttering about the government not operating a charity house, others claiming Britain had no need for lessons. Nicholas tried several times to bring the discussion back to his speech, but the time to connect with anyone was over. If he had any eternal power, he would condemn to the devil every single one of the men defending their right to sit idly by while others died. But seeing as he hadn't been able to put the earthly power he held as a duke to any good, he doubted anyone would listen to his useless curses.

So he shouted just one, telling Lord Rayleigh where he could go, and then bit his tongue on the rest of the curses and stormed out.

He strode through the empty corridor. Nicholas was a blasted duke, but he might as well be a currier when he stepped into Parliament. Peoplei tossed his ideas into the bin like they were the daydreams of a child. And every time he failed to convince Parliament to fund relief aid more fully in Ireland, he felt like he was reading about Donald's death all over again.

Donald had been his only friend in the army. They had both been outcasts, Nicholas because he was the sole heir to the Harrington title and Donald because of his Irish heritage. Nicholas hadn't been allowed to stand beside him on the battlefield. General Woodsworth had tried to treat Nicholas like any other soldier, but even he couldn't take the risk of sending a future duke into battle.

Donald had died alone, fighting for a country that would turn its back on his people. But battling for Donald's extended family and homeland in Parliament should be something Nicholas could do.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he wanted nothing more than to ignore them, burst out of the door, and jump into his carriage.

"Harrington." Nicholas's feet stopped immediately. Two years of listening to General Woodsworth's commands had made him obedient to that voice. Nicholas turned to see General Woodsworth, now Lord Woodbury, striding toward him, his large frame practically filling the corridor. "Lord Rayleigh shouldn't dare talk to you like that."

Nicholas couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. "He is probably trying to make me fail so I can learn some noble lesson."

"That is utter bullocks, and most of the room knows it. If this were the army, he'd be demoted or dishonorably discharged by now. I'm not sure why you made me join this circus when I could've been enjoying retirement instead."

"Yes, well, this isn't the army, my vote doesn't outweigh anyone else's, and whatever influence the title of Harrington had died with my father."

Woodbury's weathered face showed no emotion. "Many more people respect you than you think."

"If that is true, I wish they would speak up now and again."

"They will. Leadership is earned. You need to give it time. Establish yourself as someone who is steady and reliable, and they will come around."

Woodbury didn't have to say out loud what he meant by that. Nicholas hadn't always been reliable or steady, and many of members of Parliament still saw him as the hotheaded and brash young man he'd been in his youth. He was no replacement for his father, and all of London knew that. But despite the folly of his youth, Nicholas was a better man than his grandfather had been. He wished the rest of the world could have seen how hard he had tried in the army. How much he'd changed. "Thank you, Woodbury."

"I'm going to go back in there and give them all a piece of my mind. I watched too many Irishmen die for this country to sit by while their children starve. Want to join me?"

Nicholas smirked. He'd seen Woodbury make grown men grovel. He might not be ranked as high as Nicholas, but Woodbury had the respect of the nation. No one, not even Lord Rayleigh, would interrupt him.

Nicholas swallowed hard. The only thing he wanted to do was escape the madhouse behind him, but running away wouldn't help. He nodded, and the two of them walked back in silence.

Parliament was silent while Woodbury addressed them, and his tales of Irish bravery had seemed to move a few of the people who had ignored Nicholas. But at the end of the day, no one wanted to put up anything for a vote. The Irish problem had lasted so long, not enough members of Parliament cared anymore. But the length of a famine only increased its horrors, and Nicholas didn't understand how so many men could look their own children in the eyes when they got home, knowing they hadn't done anything to help other men's children who were emaciated from a lack of food.

Nicholas barely registered the carriage ride home. When he opened the door to his house, the sharp, bouncing notes of Good King Wenceslas invaded Nicholas's ears. He clenched his jaw. Hadn't Mother sung that song enough the day before? Christmas had come and gone a month ago, but that didn't stop Mother from singing, not only out of season, but out of tune. It had been two years since Patience had married, and he and mother had managed—more than managed. They even sang together at times, but he couldn't concentrate with all this constant signing.

Especially not after the fiasco that had just happened in Parliament. If Father were still alive, that speech would have gone very differently. Nobody would have dared interrupt Father. He'd single-handedly brought honor back to the Harrington name, rejecting the lasciviousness and debauchery of his own father and making the Duke of Harrington stand for solid conviction instead of weak resolutions.

Nicholas ignored the missed high note and grabbed his letters from the hall table, then strode into his study. He sat at his desk, pushed aside the estate papers he had been working on the day before and opened the first of his letters.

The moment he saw the surname at the bottom, his fingers tightened, crumpling the corner of the letter. Why was Lady Plymton's uncle corresponding with him? He skimmed past the opening pleasantries, and then his eyes froze over a single line.

Lady Plymton would be returning to London from Spain. A new widow, she had deemed four months an adequate time to morn her husband's death and was going to be reentering Society.

Four months.

How could a woman only mourn a husband for four months?

He'd stayed in mourning for two years after Father died.

And why the deuce had Lady Plymton's uncle thought he needed to be warned? Lady Plymton was nothing to Nicholas. Not anymore. She'd destroyed his life once already. The lack of deference in Parliament hurt, but it didn't hold a candle to losing his father's respect. He crumpled the letter and threw it into the bin. Why was he even in London? If Lady Plymton was coming, perhaps he should return to Brushbend. The thought of running into her made his stomach twist like he'd eaten spoiled potatoes. He'd spent most of the past four years here, trying to live up to his father's name, but the situation in Parliament only showcased how far he still had to go. The last thing the House of Lords needed was a reminder of Nicholas's past.

A knock sounded at the front door, and Mother's voice hitched to a blessed stop. The silence that followed was a balm to his soul. He rubbed a hand down his face. Praise the heavens that Patience had scheduled a visit every Thursday morning. His sister could keep Mother talking for at least an hour.

If Patience was here, that meant her husband, Ottersby, would be alone. It was time Nicholas accepted the fact that he wasn't making progress with Parliament on his own. Woodbury was right. Nicholas needed to establish himself as a respectable leader like his father. He needed a plan, and no one was better at formulating a plan than Woodbury's own son and Nicholas's brother-in-law. It was time to pay Ottersby a visit.

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