Chapter 1

One

HART AND SUMMERS, SOLICITORS, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

WILLIAM

Drowning in paperwork, what a way to die. My epitaph would read: William Hart. He survived an entire war only to be crushed to death by contracts. Dearest nothing. Beloved to no one.

My hand gave a pathetic seize in protest as I signed the topmost copy. That was the bargain I made with my body, the cramped way I held my quill to write with my favored left hand in exchange for recognizable letters. No amount of knuckle raps from tutors had been able to force legible penmanship from the right.

"Finished yet?" I glanced up to see Kit Summers leaning against the doorway in his customary manner. My partner's dark, curly mop of hair was overgrown and he hadn't bothered to shave in several days. Propped against the door, his arms were crossed and his perpetually disgruntled mouth was turned unusually far down. The brow was furrowed too.

"You look like shite," I retorted, ignoring the question.

"Thank you. So do you. Are you finished with the contracts?"

He was likely not wrong about my appearance. I had run my fingers through my hair more than a few times today. And my spectacles were smudged beyond all measure.

"No, I mean it. You look even worse than you usually do," I insisted, refusing to acknowledge the evening's agenda.

He ignored the slight. "You've forgotten haven't you?"

Tragically, I had not. I laced my fingers in front of me, pushing them away in an attempt to loosen the tension in my shoulders. "Would you leave me be if I said I wasn't finished and I had forgotten?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no, I am not finished. I will never be finished. Also no, I have not forgotten. In spite of my best efforts, I might add. Why do we need to attend this again?"

"Wayland's is our best client by far. Wayland and Ainsley each invited both of us personally. And Katie begged." All valid reasons. Except for Lady Grayson. The man could manage his sister's meddling on his own.

"But if you'll recall, it's a masquerade. If we're not there, who will know?" I bargained.

"Will, please don't make me attend alone." Kit often wore such a gloomy countenance. I'd quite forgotten the effectiveness of his whining when he feared the glower insufficient.

But the thought of attending this damned ball… "Think of all the ladies you'll attract as an earl. Titled ones too. You won't be alone for long."

His scowl deepened. Reminders of his newly acquired earldom had a way of doing that. There was a fine line between teasing him and upsetting him, and I'd tripped over it.

"Fortune and title hunters who wouldn't have looked at me twice months ago. And Katie has been in a matchmaking mood since lil' Henry was born. Wants a cousin for him. And now she has options ." He added a dramatic shudder to the last word. A reflection on the horrors he would face—gently bred young ladies chasing after him with ribbons twirling in their wake.

I sighed and rose from the scarred oak desk and stretched my back. When we were busy, I had a tendency to forget to move. It hadn't been a bother when I was a lad of twentysomething, but now, in the midst of my thirties, my body protested.

"All right," I grumbled. "Let me get my coat and we can be off. At least Mrs. Ainsley will have made something delicious." It was easy to console myself with thoughts of baked goods. They might be enough to make this torture worthwhile. Perhaps . If she'd made the Shrewsbury cakes. Or the cardamom buns. Or those little cake things.

"No. We need to change first," Kit insisted.

"What?" I glanced down at myself. I wore the same serviceable white shirt and brown, tweed waistcoat as always. In the afternoons, when the sun poured into the window along the side wall of my office, heating the air, I tossed my coat aside and worked in my shirtsleeves.

"Kate's orders," he added by way of explanation.

"You jest."

"I never jest about Kate's orders. Also, you have ink all up your sleeve. These are our patrons. We should probably pretend to be professionals."

Damn, all the way to the elbow.

"My patrons," I grumbled. Kit may loathe reminders of his new title, but it was only a matter of time before he was forced to accept the inevitable. And I would be forced to do the work of two solicitors—busy solicitors—while training up a new partner.

"Will…"

"Fine, but you'll help with at least half of these tomorrow." I gestured toward the precarious stack of financial documents on my desk.

"All right, but you have to wear this." He tossed a scrap of black fabric my way and I caught it with ease. It was a scrap with two evenly spaced oval holes in the center. No .

"Absolutely not."

"Kate insisted."

"She's not my sister."

"I'll tell her you're looking for a wife," he threatened.

"Won't work. She doesn't know a single lady who would look twice at me and you know it. The lack of fortune and title alone are enough of a deterrent. Then there is the temperament. And look, there's someone with both title and fortune right here?—"

"Three-quarters of the stack," he countered in a desperate attempt to quiet me.

"Whole thing."

"Done," he agreed.

"Really? I would have done it for half. This is why you should be off… earling or whatever it is earls do. A solicitor's life is not for you." I capped the ink and began wiping off the quill.

"As far as I can tell, earls attend ridiculous parties and hop about with silly girls."

"It's a perfect life for you." Quill clean, I tugged open the rusty drawer of my desk and dropped the stack of papers inside before locking it.

Kit's scowl deepened but he pressed off the doorframe. "Meet back here in an hour? We can hire a hack."

"Just enough time for you to remove the cat that seems to have taken up residence on your face."

"One hour, Will," he said, ignoring the slight as he dragged a hand across the fur covering his jaw. He was serious.

"Fine." I snatched up the ridiculous mask and shut the door to my office behind me. I strode past the two rows of wooden desks that faced the center aisle.

Those desks were long empty; our clerks only called them home between the hours of nine and four. Kit and I often arrived earlier and stayed later, and tonight was no exception.

He opened the glass door and waited for me to pass as the bell above offered a disgruntled clang. We really ought to replace it one of these days.

Kit took off down the street with a nod toward his bachelor lodgings.

This part of town was always quiet at this time of the evening, after the shops and offices closed and people returned to their families. A delivery boy rested on the milk crate that never seemed to return to the dairy. It resided permanently at the corner of the alley between my office and the milliner's shop across the way. The boy covered his eyes with a cap as he leaned against the wall. Two seamstresses from the modiste a couple of shops down strolled past, their giggles startling an elderly gentleman who often rested on the bench across the street.

I locked the door before making the arduous two-step journey to the entry of my flat directly next door. Inside, I climbed the stairs, wishing desperately that I could collapse onto my bed until my stomach protested and I was forced to put something together for supper. Instead, I would need to change into my least comfortable breeches and my overly starched shirt. And then I had to attend a ridiculous ball with ridiculous people. I could feel the headache forming behind my eyes with each step.

Why the devil had I agreed to attend tonight?