Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

LONDON—LATE MARCH 1830

S imon's day could have been worse. Or so he told himself. The waves of fatigue and sudden chills creeping in might be his imagination instead of another malaria attack.

Or so he told himself.

He squeezed against the wall of the hallway as servants bustled past, carrying the Duke and Duchess of Burwood's trunks.

"Excuse us, Mr. Beckham," one of the footmen said as Simon tried in vain to stay out of their way.

The atmosphere at Pendrake House—situated in the most elite part of London—had been nothing short of funereal.

Simon grunted at the thought. Poor choice of words.

Indeed, Honoria's sister-in-law, Margery, had expired from consumption two days prior, word having just reached them in London that very morning. Naturally, Honoria was distraught, and Drake had insisted they pack up and head to Somerset posthaste .

Drake's voice boomed with ducal authority from the gallery below. "Simon! A word, if you please."

Simon couldn't help but smile. Drake had taken to his role as duke so quickly, one would never imagine how reluctant he'd been to assume the responsibility of his ancestors. In fact, less than a year prior, Simon and Drake had perpetrated a deception at a house party wherein they had switched roles, with Drake pretending to be Simon's man-of-business. Thank goodness the scheme didn't backfire and lose Drake the woman of his dreams.

Drake peered up from where he had his arm wrapped around his wife's waist, his brow furrowed and eyes tense. He had every reason to be tense. In addition to the death of his brother-in-law's wife, Honoria expected their first child in less than a month. Both the Duke of Ashton, functioning as Honoria's physician, and Drake had urged her not to chance the journey so late in her confinement. But even two dukes could not dissuade her. Honoria would hear none of it.

"I need to be there for Colin," she'd said.

So like Honoria to put others' needs before her own. And as much as Simon admired her, like her husband and physician, he worried for both her and her child's safety.

No doubt Drake—who ran worst case scenarios in his mind constantly—had planned for every possibility.

Simon managed to skirt past the footmen once again as they returned upstairs to retrieve—no doubt—another trunk, finally making it down the long staircase.

Honoria sent him a tremulous smile. Dark shadows under her eyes, red from weeping, marred her fair complexion.

Unable to bear her pain, Simon jerked his gaze away and faced Drake. "Write as soon as you make it to Somerset safely."

Drake gave a curt nod, his drawn face mirroring the woman he loved. "The journey will take longer than usual. We'll have to make more frequent stops, so don't worry."

Impossible . And also excruciatingly painful. And Simon tried to avoid pain at all costs. A wave of heat hit him, reminiscent of the blasted Indian desert, and he swayed.

Luckily, Drake's attention remained on Honoria. The last thing he wanted was to add to Drake's list of concerns. By the time Drake turned back toward him, Simon had recovered.

Drake tugged on his gloves. "With both Stratford and myself away, Ashton promised to take the helm with our argument in Parliament for reform. Harcourt will fill in when Ashton has to be at his clinic. I've asked them to relay any information directly to you. If you would compile it and write to me with any news, I would appreciate it."

"Of course. I still can't believe you've managed to get Stratford on your side." Simon sent an apologetic glance toward Honoria. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn't mean to disparage your father."

"No offense taken, Simon. And please cease with the ‘Your Grace' when we're alone. There is nothing graceful about the way I feel." She placed a hand on her back, stretched forward, and gave a very delicate groan.

Drake straightened to attention, reminding Simon of their days in the military. "We need to get you settled in the carriage, my darling."

Simon would never understand the quiet communication his friends had with each other. It was as if they could read each other's thoughts. The idea was both appealing and disconcerting.

And nothing he would ever experience with a woman if he had any say in the matter.

Footmen maneuvered around them with yet another trunk, and Frampton appeared. The butler's usual stoic expression softened as he waited to be acknowledged.

"Is all readied?" Drake asked.

"Yes, Your Grace. That"—he tipped his head in the direction the footmen had gone—"was the last trunk. Brown and Miss Price are aboard the second carriage. Are you certain I can't accompany you?"

Drake shook his head. "No offense, Frampton. My brother-in-law's home is fully staffed. Besides, someone needs to look after Simon, especially since I'm taking Brown while Dawson is away."

Frampton's lips twitched slightly.

Simon rolled his eyes. "I've managed without a valet before, and Dawson will return from Lincolnshire after his sister's wedding. If you don't trust me to not run off with the silver, fine. But at least allow the other servants to take an extended holiday while you're away."

Frampton turned toward Drake, awaiting approval. Simon prayed he would give it. The fewer witnesses the better if he wound up having another episode. Less chance to have it wind up in the scandal sheet for his mother to see.

"What about your meals, Simon?"

Simon forced a smile. "Frampton and I will manage, won't we?"

Drake lifted his eyebrows, then, ignoring Simon completely, turned toward Frampton. "Have Cook stay as well. But you may relieve the rest of the staff. Tell them they will be paid fully for their time away. If Simon insists, he can make his own bed, draw his own bath water, and shave himself." Drake gave a soft chuckle. "I give him three days before he's begging you to call them back. I'll write advising when we expect to return."

"Please don't give The Muckraker any fodder while we're away, Simon." Her hand moving to support her large stomach, Honoria leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

"Who? Me?" Simon did his damnedest to appear affronted.

Honoria only laughed and headed out the door.

With a quick peek over his shoulder at his wife, Drake said, "Are you certain you're well? You look a little pale."

Before Simon could make up a lie and answer, Honoria gave another delicate groan, and Drake rushed over to help her into the carriage.

Simon lifted a hand, waving goodbye as his friends drove off for Somerset.

When Frampton finally closed the door, Simon collapsed into a nearby chair. "If you would, Frampton, be a good chap and help me to my room. Then dismiss the servants and send for Dr. Somersby."

Charlotte's hands curled into fists in her lap. Her lips pressed together so tightly that, if possible, they would fuse together. Inside, the rage seethed. Surely, she'd misheard her brother's words.

Roland, the Marquess of Edgerton, sat before her, pompous on his throne of a chair. It had become increasingly more difficult to tolerate her eldest brother since her more amiable brother, Nash, had left for America. At least with Nash, she could commiserate in private about Roland's brutish nature.

One of Roland's dark eyebrows hitched. "Well? Have you nothing to say?"

She uttered the only words she dared. "I refuse to marry him."

Roland gave a nasty laugh. "I've signed the marriage contract. Of course, legally you can refuse, but I would caution you, Lady Charlotte. Doing so will result in unfortunate consequences."

Her fists tightened. Addressing her formally indicated Roland meant business. No brotherly warmth or affection shone in his voice or eyes. Still, she challenged him. "Such as?"

He leaned forward, his already cold eyes frosting her through. "How does losing your home sound? It's well past the time you marry and become some other man's liability. I grow tired of supporting you. Both you and Nash apparently believed you would live off my generosity in perpetuity."

Charlotte snorted a derisive laugh. Generous was a word never used in conjunction with the Marquess of Edgerton—past or present. "Nash never wanted your money."

"Yet he was quick enough to take and spend it." Roland's upper lip curled, and his eyes narrowed.

It was enough to send a chill racing down her spine.

"Perhaps I should ship you off to America to be with him."

The prospect wasn't necessarily unappealing. Still . . .

Roland leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "But no. You're a better bargaining tool here. Ashton, Harcourt, and that new upstart Burwood"—Roland scrunched his face as if just speaking the man's name sickened him—"have joined forces with Commons, supporting parliamentary reform. Even Stratford has changed sides. I need an ally to oppose them."

Charlotte found her voice. "Lord Felix Davies can hardly assist in your efforts. He's not in line to inherit." Unless both his elder brother and his brother's young son die. Honoria's husband, Drake, was proof how happenstance could bring a man to the forefront of the aristocracy. But Felix was no Drake. The man was a worm.

"Oh, I beg to differ, dear sister." Where Roland was concerned, the term was not one of endearment. "It would seem Lord Scarborough is tiring of his son's rakish reputation and wishes him to marry well. Naturally, he came to me suggesting an alliance. Unlike our brother's, your reputation is spotless"—Roland tugged on his ruffled shirt sleeves, then satisfied they measured exactly one-half inch from his coat sleeve, met her gaze, the sinister glee dancing in their dark depths chilling her—"so far."

She swallowed, her jaw as tense as her tight fists. "What do you mean, so far?"

With an insouciant shrug, he diverted his attention to the papers before him. The marriage contract? "Only that Felix was heard bragging that he'd despoiled you, thus sullying your pristine reputation. That alone is grounds for a forced marriage in my opinion. But Scarborough and I can cover that up easily enough with a little coin."

A knot formed in Charlotte's stomach. How could he be so nonchalant about the matter? "Lord Felix is a liar."

Roland's dark eyebrow quirked. "Is he?"

"How dare you!"

Her brother simply stared. The man was infuriating. "Whether he is or is not is pointless. His words alone can damage you—unless we do something about it immediately." He flicked a hand toward the door. "He's waiting in the yellow parlor for you. Now, go and let him make his proposal. It's simply a formality at this point, but perhaps he'll manage a few pretty words to win you over."

With enough force to knock the chair over, Charlotte pushed back from Roland's desk and rose. There were not enough words, nor none pretty enough to ever get her to accept Lord Felix Davies. Not after what he'd tried to do to her. "You can't do this."

Roland slammed his hand on the desk, the vibration ruffling the papers. "I can, and I will. Not only will you cease living under my protection, but you will face the consequences of a ruined reputation on your own."

Charlotte straightened her back and—head held high—strode from the room. She would have to learn to live with a ruined reputation. It was better than a miserable life married to a worm like Felix.

Or so she hoped.