Prologue

VILLAGE OF PENSFORD, 1799

A ugust Wade, nephew of the Duke of Courtland, thought quite a lot of himself. Marching about the churchyard as if he bloody owned it. Chest puffed out like a small rooster.

He was bound to come to a bad end one day.

At least that was the opinion of Miss Hazel Dartmont, extolling the wisdom of her thirteen years. Narrowing her eyes, she took in his pudgy, rotund form with disgust. She deplored his arrogant, snobbish manner, which dictated that every other child in Pensford bow to him simply because his uncle was the Duke of Courtland. Nine years old and already an unholy terror. Always correcting others if they failed to address him without the proper respect. At least his equally superior cousin, Lord Edward, felt even associating with the village children to be beneath him.

Pity August did not.

Though he was shorter and rounder than every other child dashing about the grass, August was horribly easy to spot. No one could miss his bright hair, as light as moonbeams, atop his overly large head.

Yes. Moonbeams .

A blonde so pale as to be nearly white. A shame to waste such lovely hair on August, of all people. But Papa often said the good lord decided things outside our understanding, and we shouldn't question his wisdom.

Hazel heard a cry of alarm.

She narrowed her eyes at the sight of August looming over another child, a fistful of stolen sweets in his pudgy hand. A smug smile was pasted on his chubby features, turquoise eyes flashing with triumph.

Such beautiful eyes. Yet another physical trait completely wasted on such a putrid little troll. She'd once seen a jewel the same shade of turquoise, at a shop in Bristol while on a visit to Uncle Roger.

Hazel's own eyes were a dull brown. Like mud. Common. Not special.

August marched about the grass surrounding Pensford's small vicarage, a calculated grin painted on his features as he searched about for a weaker child to take advantage of—which was nearly all of them. No one would dare challenge the nephew of the Duke of Courtland, no matter how awful. The duke donated a great deal to the vicarage and Pensford. Today was the village's annual picnic, an entire afternoon of pie-eating contests, games, and the infamous scavenger hunt for sweets. Every year, the sweets were purchased by the duke and came from a famous confectioner in London. The vicar and his wife would place the candy in small bags and hide them around the churchyard for the children to find. Taffy, lemon drops, licorice sticks…the list was endless. Every child in Pensford looked forward to this event all year.

Which was why not a soul wanted to anger His Grace by informing him his nephew was a toad. Besides, the duke likely already knew.

Hazel sucked on a cinnamon drop, moving the bit of candy around her mouth as she watched August trip another boy. The poor lad was holding onto his sack of candy for dear life, shaking his head as he tried to get away.

Something must be done about the bloody little troll.

Why was August Wade even here ruining the day for the other children?

Eyeing his form, Hazel thought the duke's nephew must have already eaten all the sweets, cake, and pie any child could possibly want. He resembled a piglet far more than a boy of nine. Most of the village children came from families barely able to afford bread and meat, let alone a stick of licorice.

August, Hazel decided, was a plague which had descended on Pensford with no warning, taking up residence with his uncle, the duke, his cousin Lord Edward, and the tiny infant, Lady Eliza. He was always strutting about Pensford, tossing out that his uncle was the duke.

Hazel made a face. Incredibly pompous for a nine-year old boy. He'd likely grow into an intolerable adult.

A wail sounded as August and the boy each tugged on the sack holding the sweets until the small burlap bag split in two, spilling the contents across the grass.

August kicked one or two pieces out of reach of the child before laughing and grabbing up the rest and walking away.

Pear-shaped brat.

Hazel's first unpleasant encounter with August had been at the very start of June, when she had been catching frogs with Tom and John Parsons. A pleasurable enough way to pass the afternoon. She'd been knee-deep in the water, her skirts tucked up, when August had strolled by, searching for someone to torment. His squat little nose had raised in the air at the sight of Hazel.

"You allow her to wade about with you?" August drawled in his horribly upper crust accent, which he deliberately exaggerated to let everyone know he was important.

Tom shrugged. "She's decent at catching frogs."

"Young ladies do not catch frogs, but perhaps she isn't one." A smirk pulled at his mouth. "Just look at those spindly limbs. Bony knees. Far too tall. Ladies are small and delicate."

Hazel bristled, a frog clutched in her hands. Everyone made fun of her height. It wasn't if she could do anything about it. "I am a young lady."

"No, you're a stork." He clapped his fat little hands and nodded slowly at Hazel's two companions. "We should call her Stork."

John Parsons giggled and pointed at Hazel's legs. "Stork."

Now the Parson boys no longer invited her to hunt for frogs because they were much too busy following August about. Hazel had been deemed unacceptable.

Or rather, Stork was unacceptable. No one addressed her as Hazel anymore.

Emily Jones screeched and jumped up in the air, drawing Hazel's attention as she tried to take back her small bag of sweets from August.

August laughed maniacally, holding the bag just out of Emily's reach. He turned, grinning at Hazel. "I'll be coming for yours next, Stork."

Hazel's fists curled. "I dare you to try."

She was not Stork but Miss Hazel Dartmont, daughter of the village draper. A prestigious position, since didn't everyone require clothing? Curtains? Cushions for their chairs? Papa was very good at fabrics, and he was teaching her. Hazel could tell whether a bolt of cloth was silk, wool, or tulle, just by the touch of her fingers. She knew all about silkworms. How to dye wool. Granted, there wasn't much demand for such knowledge in Pensford, but Papa was the only draper for miles unless one wished to travel to Bristol.

She glared at the plump little toad. If August was ever so bold as to enter the Dartmont shop, Hazel might stab him with the shears Father used to cut fabric.

You will desist from antagonizing Master August. Her father's admonishment lingered in her mind. We cannot afford the displeasure of the Duke of Courtland.

That was the warning Papa had given Hazel earlier today, after she'd complained that August had deliberately tripped her as she'd left Mrs. Bentley's shop with a bag of flour. He had called her Stork as she'd entered the shop. Hazel had kicked him in the shin. August had retaliated by tripping her as she left. Mama had been most displeased at the loss of flour.

And Mrs. Bentley had been horrified Hazel had attacked the duke's nephew.

August tucked away poor Emily's candy, ignoring her pleas for him to give it back. Making his way over to little Joseph Sims, who was not even six years old, he eyed the younger child with undisguised glee.

Someone must put a stop to this.

Hazel looked towards the adults huddled near the tables at the edge of the churchyard. The duke's carriage stood to one side, the top down to expose the Duke of Courtland and his son, Lord Edward. Edward had a string of titles, though Hazel couldn't recall any of them. He never associated with the villagers or spoke to any of them.

Unlike his horrid cousin.

Little Joseph was crying now, his lips pressed so tight, he made barely a sound as August took the candy the little boy had worked so hard to find.

The rest of Pensford was far too busy fawning over Courtland to witness the reign of terror being conducted by the duke's nephew. Even if Vicar Digby or any of the other adults caught sight of what was happening, none would be so bold as to intervene.

Something must be done.

She marched in August's direction, just in time to hear him threaten Dr. Smythe's son, Eli, if his bag of sweets wasn't handed over. Stepping between the petty tyrant and Eli, Hazel put her hands on her hips, grateful for once that she towered over August by at least five inches.

"Stop this instant," she snapped.

August looked up at her with those dazzling eyes, brow raised in utter disdain. "Or what, Stork? What will you do? Nothing, that's what. Go on." One little hand waved her away.

Incensed, Hazel took a step forward. "I am here to put an end to your belittling of the others." She poked him in the stomach with her forefinger. "Besides, you've had quite enough candy, Lord Tubby."

A dark, angry flush stole up his skin. "Bugger off, Stork," he growled. "Hideous thing. Good grief, just look at your cheeks. Is that the mud I tossed at you the other day?"

Hazel's lower lip jutted out. "Freckles. They are called freckles, and there is nothing wrong with them." She'd forgotten that he'd tossed mud at her as she'd walked a package of cloth, thankfully wrapped, to the butcher's wife.

"Looks like mud to me." August made a face. "And so ugly." He shivered. "Like a monster beneath the bed."

"I am not ugly," she whispered. Her freckles were meant to be kissed, according to her mother. And Mama insisted there was nothing wrong with Hazel's height or her stick-thin form, including her horrifying lack of bosom.

"Hideous." August's grin was full of malice. "Stork."

Good lord, she detested him. "Brute." Hazel reached out, swatting Eli's bag from his hand. "I do not resemble a stork."

Eli let out a cry of distress as the bag fell to the grass.

"Pick up your candy," Hazel directed. "Lord Doughball has had enough." She made a snorting sound like a pig snuffling through slops.

August's cheeks puffed out, anger mottling his pale skin with bursts of red. "How dare you? I am the nephew of the Duke of Courtland. You will address your betters properly or not at all."

"I choose not at all," Hazel declared, poking him once more in the stomach with her finger. "You are not better than me. Not even close. I may not be related to a duke, but at least my parents didn't drop me on my uncle's doorstep. You're so intolerable, they don't want you about either."

August inhaled, his eyes wounded before glaring at her once more. "Take your filthy hands from my person this instant," he spat. "How dare you touch me?"

Eli looked between them, his small face a mask of fear as he scrambled to gather up his bag of sweets.

Hazel straightened, feeling powerful. Vindicated. She was vanquishing the troll. Papa would understand why she'd had to stand up to August Wade. "My father?—"

"Is no one of any import. Nor are you," August sneered. "This entire stupid little village exists on the charity of my uncle, who, I believe, paid for these sweets." He looked at Eli, who had managed to retrieve all his spilled candy. "And thus, they belong to me." August held out his hand. "Give it over. Now."

"Don't do it, Eli," Hazel whispered. "He can't make you."

"No, but the duke ," August emphasized again, "can make Dr. Smythe do all sorts of things, can't he?"

Hazel took a step back. "You're horrible to threaten him."

Eli sniffed and gave over his tiny sack, a tear rolling down one cheek.

"See? He respects his betters, Stork."

A sound of outrage escaped Hazel. August was a perfect example of why the nobility were not better.

Taking a deep breath, Hazel punched August Wade right in his jiggling belly.

Eli gasped, hand covering his mouth in horror.

Two girls nearby halted in their hunt for candy, staring at Hazel in shock.

August, stunned, let out a whoosh of air and grunted in pain.

Taking advantage of his surprise, Hazel shoved the little tyrant as hard as she could with both palms.

He fell to the ground, landing right on his pear-shaped bottom, staring at Hazel in astonishment, mouth open, a bit of licorice falling past his lips.

The other children running about the lawn all turned in Hazel's direction.

She glared down at August. "Stealer of sweets."

"You'll be sorry you did that." He glared at her. "Stork."

Vicar Digby paused in his fawning over the Duke of Courtland at that moment and turned his attention to the churchyard, an appalled expression marring his otherwise kind features.

"Whose child is that?" she heard August's uncle, the duke, say clearly, but only because every other adult had gone deathly silent.

Oh. Dear.

"Hideous creature," August hissed before rolling over to stand. "Just you wait."

For such a tubby little troll, he had unusually large feet. Like a duck.

"Once I tell my uncle," he said, eyes glinting with malice, "I'll make sure your father never sells another loaf of bread. You'll be catching frogs to eat, and not for fun. Maybe I'll even have you thrown out of Pensford."

"He isn't the village baker, you idiot," Hazel said, before dread stopped her from speaking further. Surely once she explained the situation—that August had been stealing from the other children—the vicar would understand that Hazel had had to take strong measures to get him to stop. Nothing would happen to Papa.

"I don't care who he is. Nor do I give a fig for you, Stork. I'll warrant that no one in this little village does."

The circle of the other children drew closer, like a pack of dogs smelling blood in the air. No one looked at her with any sort of friendship. Not even Eli, who she'd so ably defended. This was always the way, wasn't it? Privileged little toads like August lording it over the rest of them. It wasn't fair and?—

"Here, now, what's this?" Vicar Digby interrupted Hazel's thoughts. "What has happened, Master August?"

August's lower lip trembled. The amazing turquoise of his eyes took on a sheen of tears. He sniffed rather dramatically and looked down at his enormous feet.

The vicar placed a hand on his shoulder. "Goodness, are you unwell? Allow me to escort you to your uncle."

"She…" August bit his lip and gave a sob. "Has been stealing the sacks of candy from the other children."

Hazel's mouth popped open. "That isn't true," she stuttered looking around her, begging one of the others to chime in. "It isn't. He was stealing from the others, and I stopped him."

"When I didn't give mine over quickly enough, she…" August pointed at her with one pudgy finger. "She hit me." Another sob. "I fear if you hadn't come, she would have injured me further."

Hazel shook her head. "He's lying." Her head swiveled around at the other children. "He is. Tell the vicar."

"I am a gentleman." August tilted his chin up, a smirk making his lips twitch. "Gentlemen do not lie."

"Of course not, Master August." The vicar smiled before taking Hazel's arm in a brutal grip. "Come with me this instant. Your father will have something to say about this."

"But that isn't what happened at all." How disappointing that even though she had lived in Pensford her entire life, not one of the other children would stand up for her. They would rather go along with a lie issued by a fat little troll than do what was right. How she detested them all. The duke. His son and heir, Edward. Lord Gaspar, who had once visited Papa's shop, refusing to put out his cheroot, and dribbled ashes over a bolt of expensive damask. Lady Hutchins who had never paid for the brocade covering her windows, though it had been nearly two years.

And most especially Master August Wade.

Hazel gritted her teeth as Vicar Digby led her away, but not before she heard August's unrestrained giggle at her back.

Nothing improved after that day, or at all during the long, warm summer. Indeed, things became that much worse until Vicar Digby visited one day and advised the Dartmont family that they should leave Pensford to avoid further angering the Duke of Courtland and seek their fortune elsewhere.