Prologue

The Reverend Augustus Shackleford rested his hands contentedly on his ample stomach and belched loudly, the stew he’d just consumed resting a trifle heavily on his stomach. It was noon at the Red Lion Pub in the village of Blackmore in Devonshire, England, and while he could quite easily have had his luncheon back at the vicarage, the Reverend much preferred the ale and conversation the pub provided as opposed to the never-ending arguing and bickering that came with the unfortunate position of having nine females residing in his house. Though he’d never asked him, the Reverend was content that his dog Freddy was also of the same opinion. The foxhound was currently curled up under the table, happily chasing rabbits in his dreams.

Reverend Shackleford was not a man of immense wealth and fortune, and under normal circumstances would be quite content with the fact that the coin in his pocket would more than suffice the cost of the meal he had just consumed.

These were not normal circumstances, however, and the coin in his pocket – or anywhere else for that matter, would certainly not be sufficient to provide the money to set up his only son in the manner befitting a gentleman.

His only son after eight daughters. The Reverend sighed. It had taken three wives to finally produce an heir, but the cost of paying for the eight females he’d been blessed with in the first instance was sorely testing even his creativity – somethingupon which he’d prided himself up until now.

He sat morosely staring into his pint of ale next to his long-suffering curate and only friend, Percy Noon.

“You know me Percy, I’ve got a mind as sharp as a well-creased cravat, but I’ve got to admit I’m completely nonplussed as to what to do to raise the coin.”

“Perhaps you can find some kind of work for your daughters, something suitable in polite society for ladies of a gentle disposition,” Percy suggested as he pushed his tin plate aside.

The Reverend snorted. “Have you seen any of my daughters lately?” he scoffed, shaking his head glumly. “Ladies of a gentle disposition? They don’t possess a single ladylike bone in the eight bodies they have between ‘em. They have no clue how to follow orders or how to comport themselves in any society, let alone a polite one.

“If I wish to secure even a modest fortune for Anthony, then I have no recourse but to marry ‘em off. Though I can’t imagine a man who’d be foolish enough to encumber himself with any of ‘em. Unless he was in his cups, of course.” The Reverend was silent for a while, clearly imagining a scenario where he could take advantage of a well-heeled male whilst the unfortunate victim was suitably foxed. In the end, he sighed.

“Percy, the situation is dire indeed. If I don’t come up with a plan soon, there’s going to be no coin left for Anthony at all. And not only that, we could well find ourselves in the workhouse.” He glared at Percy as if it was somehow all his curate’s fault. “If that happens, Percy my man, there’ll be no more bread-and-butter pudding for you of an evening." Percy repressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure if it was at the prospect of ending up in the workhouse or the thought of Mrs. Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding – the last of which could probably have been used to shut out the drafts. The curate suspected the vicarage cook was a little too fond of Blue Ruin to give much attention to her culinary skills.

“Then your only recourse, Sir, is to marry them off and marry them well,” he stated decisively, settling deeper into his chair. “Somehow.”

The Reverend stroked his chin, thinking about his wayward daughters. Each daughter was entirely different than the last. The only similarity they all shared was unruliness. Four of them were already at a marriageable age, with the eldest, at twenty-five, a confirmed bluestocking. What chance did he have of marrying any of them off to a wealthy gentleman bacon-brained enough to secure a fortune for his only son?

He was sure that given time, he could do it. But it would test even his legendary resourcefulness. Especially if he was going to do it without spending any coin.

“Right, we’ll need a list of suitable wealthy titled gentlemen bottle-headed enough to take ‘em on Percy,” he decided, motioning for another mug of ale. “Then we’ll let ‘em know that I have, err … good, dutiful daughters who are in need of husbands.”

“As you wish, Sir,” Percy said doubtfully as the serving wench brought another ale for them both. The Reverend picked up his tankard and took a large gulp.

“But before we do that, we’ll start by writing down all the positive attributes of the chits so that we can emphasize their good points to any prospective husbands. I mean we both know that none of them are exactly bachelor fare, but we can fudge it a bit without anyone being the wiser. At least until they have a ring on their finger.

“We’ll start with Grace since she’s the one most likely to end up an old maid if we don’t come up with the goods pretty sharpish. Right then, Percy, you start.”

Silence.

The Reverend frowned. “Come on man, surely you can find something good to say about her.”

‘She has nicely turned ankles,” responded Percy a bit desperately.

“Steady on Percy. I certainly hope you’ve never had an extended opportunity to observe my eldest daughter’s ankles. Otherwise, I might have to call you out.”

Percy reddened, flustered. “Oh no, Sir, not at all, I just happened to notice when she was climbing into the carria…”

“Humph, well I’m not sure we can put that at the top of the list, but in Grace’s case, we might have to resort to it. I mean why her mother chose to call her Grace is beyond me, considering she’s distinctly lacking in any attributes remotely divine-like. And she’s the least graceful person I’ve ever come across. If there’s something to trip over, Grace will find it. Clumsy doesn’t even begin to cut it,” he added gloomily.

“Well, she has very nice eyes,” Percy stated, thinking it best to keep any further observations about the Reverend’s daughter above the neck. “And her teeth are sound.”

The Reverend nodded, scribbling furiously.

“Can she cook, Sir?” The Reverend stopped writing and frowned. “I don’t know that she can, Percy. At least not in the same capacity as Mrs. Tomlinson.”

“Probably best not to mention it then,” Percy interrupted hastily, unwillingly conjuring up the vision of Mrs. Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding again. “And anyway, marriage to a gentleman is not likely to necessitate her venturing into the kitchen.” The Reverend nodded thoughtfully.

“How about her voice? Can she sing?”

“Like a strangled cat.”

“Dance?”

“I don’t think she’s ever danced with anyone. I deuced hope not anyway. If she has, I’ll have his guts for garters. ”

“Conversation?” Percy was getting desperate.

“Nonexistent. I don’t think she’s spoken more than half a dozen words to me since she was in the crib.” The Reverend was becoming increasingly despondent.

“Does she cut a good mother figure to her sisters?”

The Reverend snorted. “I don’t think any of ‘em are without some kind of scar where she’s dropped ‘em at some time or another.”

“How about her brain?” Percy now resorted to clutching at straws.

“Now that’s something the chit has got. Every time I see her, she’s got her nose in a book. Problem is, that’s the one attribute any well-heeled gentleman will most definitely not be looking for…”