Chapter One

England, Friday June 6, 1817

“W ell, gentlemen, I believe I shall leave you to your wine.” Betsy Kirkland stood up from the table, looking relieved. The lines on her face had grown deeper over the course of the two-hour meal.

Probably exhausted , George Kirkland thought. “You ought to get a nice rest,” he advised his aunt. “You must have worked very hard today.” Uncle William employed a good cook, but Aunt Betsy served as the housekeeper at Kirkland House. Any entertainment her brother hosted involved a good deal of work on her part.

“Thank you for an excellent meal, Aunt Betsy,” Vincent Kirkland chimed in. “And please thank the cook for us, as well.”

A smile broke across Aunt Betsy’s face, transforming wrinkles of exhaustion into lines of good humor. “I will pass on your praise,” she promised.

Once the door closed behind her, all the guests turned their eyes towards Uncle William. A rather strange assortment of guests gathered around the table. Having been to dinner at Kirkland House many times, George knew how much this dinner differed from the norm. Normally there would have been a roughly equal number of men and women, Aunt Betsy had a reputation as a matchmaker. More than one happy marriage had been made at her dinner table. At George’s last visit two years ago, in fact, his aunt had shown alarming signs of wanting to pair him off with a young heiress. That had scared him into avoiding further invitations to visit Kirkland House, right up until Uncle Willian had directly summoned him.

Tonight, there were no heiresses dining at Uncle William’s heavily laden table. In fact, there were no women at all apart from Aunt Betsy, who played her usual role as gracious hostess. All of the guests were Kirkland men. Next to George sat his cousin Vincent. There was nothing odd about the two of them having been invited to dine. George and Vincent were the offspring of William’s two older brothers, and Uncle William had always remained on good terms with those families.

No, the strange thing was that Augustus and Benedict Kirkland had also been invited to dinner tonight. Their father, Grandfather Kirkland’s youngest son, had quarreled violently with the rest of the family decades ago. Like Uncle William, Uncle Ambrose had eschewed the genteel professions in order to pursue more lucrative work in trade. Unlike Uncle William, he had neither amassed an impressive fortune nor taken any effort to keep on good terms with the rest of the family. When Ambrose married the daughter of a linen draper and failed to inform his parents of the fact until after the wedding, Grandfather Kirkland had washed his hands of him. Ambrose died without ever having been reconciled with the family.

So far as George knew, Uncle William still did not care much for that side of the family, and he rarely invited those two nephews to his house. He did not look down on them for being engaged in trade, since he had made his fortune by investing in a cotton mill, but he always claimed that “the Manchester Kirklands” were ill-mannered.

So what were Benedict and Augustus doing here now ? George pondered the question while the claret traveled around the table. All the men took a glass of wine, except for Uncle William, who stuck to water.

“Can’t have wine after dinner. Betsy’s orders.” The sour look on Uncle William’s face showed how little he liked these orders. He took a sip of water, then cleared his throat.

“We may as well get down to business. I hope you realize that I’ve called you all here for a reason. I don’t take pleasure in having a pack of young wolves eating at my expense.” Uncle William’s keen blue eyes glared out from underneath bushy white eyebrows. What he lacked in hair on the top of his head, he made up for with his eyebrows and side whiskers.

“Of course not,” Vincent said soothingly. He caught George’s eye and grinned. They both knew that Uncle William, cranky though he might be, genuinely enjoyed having his nieces and nephews about. When Vincent, George and their sisters were children, Uncle William had invited them to his summer house for long holidays, bestowing sweets and unearned guineas upon them at every encounter. As they grew up, the sweets and guineas were replaced by unsolicited advice and expensive birthday presents.

This year, Uncle William had sent George an ornate inkstand for his twenty-fifth birthday. George initially considered selling it, since it looked entirely out of place in his shabby, cluttered chambers, but he could not bring himself to do so. He had the superstitious feeling that its elegance might inspire him to even better writing.

“So why did you summon us, Uncle William?” George had wondered that ever since he got the unexpected invitation. He’d accepted, despite the expense of traveling from London to Bath, on the grounds that the food here would be far better than what he would eat at home. He also hoped a few days away from his familiar haunts might help rekindle his literary muse, who seemed to have gone silent lately. It had been weeks since he’d made any real progress on his latest manuscript.

Uncle William sat up straighter and put down his glass of water. “I called you all here because I wanted to talk to you about Dogwood Cottage.”

“What’s Dogwood Cottage? You haven’t any estate, Mr. Kirkland.” Augustus blinked owlishly. “Do you?” He was already on his second glass of claret. Perhaps that was why he sounded so befuddled.

“Hmph!” Uncle William’s scowl deepened. A wise man would have apologized, or at least backtracked. Augustus just stared insouciantly back.

George hurried to intervene before Uncle William had one of his famous explosions of temper. “Dogwood Cottage is Uncle William’s holiday place up in Lancashire. It overlooks Pendle Water. It is a pleasant, cozy house. Lovely gardens, too.”

When William’s wife had been alive, she spent her summers there, escaping the smoke of Preston’s mills. Most years, George and his sister had joined Aunt Helena for a month or more, playing in the garden or hunting for hidden treasure by day and trying to catch the resident ghost by night. They’d succeeded only in covering the kitchen floor with flour, to the great dismay of both Aunt Helena and the cook. In hindsight, it was rather surprising that they kept being invited back year after year, given how much trouble they caused.

Uncle William did not quite smile, but his scowl relaxed. “Yes, exactly,” he agreed. “It’s no mansion, but it’s a fine building suitable for a gentleman of modest means. I’d be living there still if it weren’t for my health. Since I cannot use it, I think it’s time to pass Dogwood Cottage on to someone who can . A house ought to be lived in.”

“Very proper,” Vincent put in. “And very generous of you.”

Augustus gulped down his wine so hastily that some of it spilled out of the corner of his mouth. To George’s dismay, he wiped his face with his coat sleeve rather than his napkin. George turned his face away to hide his revulsion.

“Is there an estate to go with the house?” Augustus licked his lips to catch the last drop of wine, looking greedier than ever.

Uncle William shook his head. “It used to be a good-sized farm, but most of the fields were sold long ago. There’s just an orchard, some gardens, and a stable left. Maybe room for a chicken coop or such, but no estate or farmland.”

George nodded, though he thought Uncle William understated the extent of the property. He remembered not only chickens but also a duckpond and a small pasture with room for a milk cow. The orchard was extensive, too. The cherries had been fabulous, though he remembered the apples being sour. There was enough land for a gentleman to play farmer, if not enough to financially support him.

Uncle William noisily cleared his throat, then took another sip of water. “The house does require a gardener and maidservants and whatnot to keep it in order. I know none of you lads are precisely flush in the pocket, but you needn’t worry. The house will come with money for its maintenance, settled on the new owner— provided my conditions are met.”

Augustus put down his wine glass with unseemly haste. “Money?” His eyes widened. “How much money are we talking about?”

Once again, Vincent and George exchanged rueful glances. Vincent’s wrinkled nose suggested that he shared George’s disgust. None of the four cousins were particularly well-to-do, but that was no excuse for so openly displaying such avarice.

That said, George could not help wondering about the money, too. He could certainly use a steady income. Last year, he’d impulsively quit his job as a solicitor’s clerk so he could devote more of his time to his literary career. He did not exactly regret the decision, but he had grown tired of cranking out essays on subjects that did not interest him just to keep himself fed. The income from twenty thousand pounds would free him up to focus on his preferred writing projects—the ones he kept secret.

“Bunch of vultures,” Uncle William grumbled. “The money’s more important to you than the house, I’d wager.” He shook his head, looking dour. “Well, that’s foolishness. A fine old house that’s stood for centuries is of far greater value than a few thousand pounds in the Funds.”

Vincent nodded and thoughtfully stroked his chin. George fought to hide a smile. Even Uncle William did not believe what he just said. Uncle William had been a shrewd businessman in his day and he knew the value of a pound more than anyone. Besides, he undoubtedly had more than a few thousand pounds in the Funds.

“But how much money?” Augustus asked. “Will it really be adequate for the upkeep of the house?”

Uncle William snorted and deepened his scowl. Then he reluctantly answered the question. “Since you have asked so bluntly, I may as well tell you that a settlement of twenty thousand pounds will accompany the house.”

Augustus’s eyes widened, but he did not otherwise betray his reaction to this news. The others did not remain so impassive. In his shock, Benedict dropped his napkin. Vincent pursed his lips thoughtfully. George had to close his jaw quickly, lest he be caught gaping. To someone like him, twenty thousand pounds was an entire fortune!

“So, you’re trying to decide how to make out your will, is that it?” Vincent furrowed his brow, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. “Surely there is no haste. You seem in good health.”

Apart from his bad temper, George silently modified. Aunt Betsy’s restrictions on her brother’s eating and drinking had made his gout attacks much rarer, so he was in better health now than he had been when he moved to Bath. (Uncle William might insist that drinking the famous water from the Pump Room had vanquished his gout, but George privately gave all the credit to Aunt Betsy.)

“This isn’t about my will,” Uncle William said sharply. “That’s none of your business. I shall leave the bulk of my fortune to whomever I please, and I can tell you right now that none of you lot ought to count on being my heir!”

“Of course not,” Vincent said quickly. “We all know that your fortune is yours to do what you like with. But I thought you called us here to talk about who would inherit Dogwood Cottage?”

George didn’t think his cousin deserved the scowl Uncle William directed at him. Vincent had asked a very reasonable question—one he’d been wondering about, too.

“As I was saying,” Uncle William grumbled, “the cottage ought not be left empty. I don’t intend to wait until my demise to see someone enjoy it. I plan to give it away now, while I’m still alive. The house needs a proper caretaker, anyway. Someone who will keep an eye on things. We don’t want burglars breaking in again.”

George lowered his wine glass so abruptly, some of his claret splashed out. He mopped it up hastily with his napkin. “Burglars have broken into the house? I hope they didn’t take Aunt Helena’s favorite tea set. You know, the blue willow one?” He had always liked that pattern.

“Didn’t take anything as far I know,” Uncle William explained, “but they certainly made a mess. Tore up half-a-dozen paving stones in the kitchen!”

“Ah! Looking for the hidden treasure!” Vincent suggested. “I don’t suppose they found anything.” He and George shared a grin, remembering the time they had taken a chisel to the bricks around the kitchen fireplace in an attempt to find the treasure that the house’s original owner had supposedly hidden in the kitchen walls.

“There’s nothing to find! Pack of nonsense!” Scowling, Uncle William reached for his glass. The face he made after tasting it suggested he wished it were something stronger than water. “The house itself is treasure enough. I don’t know why anyone would damage the place on account of some superstition! The people who owned the cottage before me were respectable farmers, not pirates or highwaymen. They wouldn’t even have had a treasure worth hiding!”

“But who will you give the house to, Uncle William?” Augustus asked.

George glanced nervously at Augustus and Benedict. Benedict stared at Uncle William, his mouth agape. Augustus leaned forward in his chair, patently eager to hear the answer to his question. George knew he was being profoundly unfair to the two brothers, but he could not stomach the idea of one of them living in Dogwood Cottage. Would they even appreciate the charm of the house or the beauty of its gardens?

George knew better than to consider himself a likely prospect, given how often Uncle William had labelled him “shiftless” or “irresponsible.” But Vincent would be a far worthier heir than either of his other cousins.

“Well now, it’s not entirely up to me who will win the cottage.” Uncle William smiled slyly.

Win? That was a rather odd choice of words. George narrowed his eyes. “Is this some kind of contest, Uncle William? How fun that would be!” Or, rather, how strange. But Uncle William did sometimes take odd crotchets.

Uncle William leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his comfortably round belly. All of his grumpiness disappeared, replaced by a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I suppose it is a contest, in a manner of speaking. One might even call it a race.”

George waited for his uncle to explain himself, but Uncle William seemed determined to milk all the suspense possible out of the situation. He beamed at his four nephews, waiting for them to beg for more information. He was plainly enjoying himself.

Benedict finally asked the question they were all wondering. “What kind of race? A footrace? A horse race?”

Uncle William chuckled. “Not exactly. You see, the fact of the matter is, I plan to leave the cottage to whichever one of you boys is the first to marry.”

The four cousins exchanged puzzled glances. Was Uncle William serious? George couldn’t tell, and judging from the confusion on the other young men’s faces, neither could they.

Vincent broke the shocked silence. “The first to marry ? But Uncle... you can’t encourage people to enter rashly into the state of matrimony. The choice of wife is one of the most important decisions in a man’s life.” He shook his head solemnly, looking every inch the righteous clergyman. “Giving the cottage to the first of us to marry—assuming none of us are already betrothed—”

Vincent paused to look around the room, but the other Kirland bachelors all shook their heads. George had absolutely no marital prospects at all, and it seemed that neither Augustus nor Benedict had a fiancée, either. Benedict’s mouth still hung ajar. Augustus rested his chin on his hand, looking thoughtful.

Vincent had not finished delivering his sermon. “In short, Uncle William, I very much fear that this ‘race’ of yours will encourage imprudence, irreverence, and licentiousness.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin. His classical features made the pose look particularly noble. “I shall have nothing to do with this profoundly immoral contest”

Licentiousness? George raised his brows at that. Imprudent, yes—a man who rushed into marriage might very well come to regret it. But how could it be licentious for a man to marry?

Uncle William apparently shared his opinion. “You’re a curate, not a monk,” he reminded Vincent. “But if you’re too high-minded to take part in the challenge, that will only narrow down the competition.” He shifted his eyes back and forth between George, Benedict, and Augustus. It might have been George’s imagination, but he thought Uncle William’s eyes lingered on him longer than on his other two nephews.

George returned his uncle’s keen gaze with a rueful smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s a pity I don’t have a sweetheart. Dogwood Cottage is a charming house and it would be a lovely place to raise a family.” He spoke mostly out of politeness, but it was true. With trees for climbing, a duckpond for swimming, and a river for fishing, the house would be perfect for children.

For the first time since dinner ended, Benedict spoke. “I don’t mind getting married, but who am I supposed to marry?”

George quickly turned his snicker into a cough to hide his amusement. A twitch of Vincent’s lips showed that the question amused even the upright young cleric.

Uncle William, lacking their tact, simply laughed outright. “That, my boys, is up to you to decide, not me. You shall have to find your own brides.”

Vincent made a scoffing sound and shook his head. George caught his cousin’s eye and shrugged his shoulders again. Then he lifted his wine glass and drained the last of his claret. It really was a pity that he had no special young lady in his life. He would hate to see a house where he’d spent so many pleasant hours given away to someone who would not appreciate it. For a prize like that, he would not mind the shackles of matrimony.

But in order to marry, a man needed a bride.