Chapter One

Cockspur Street, London, 1819

D espite the high cost of land, London surpassed Edmund's hometown in Northumberland with its abundance of squares and spacious streets. The view had remained unchanged for his entire two-and-twenty years of life, just as busy, just as noisy, and just as hot. Cockspur Street, like the Haymarket it led to, was so broad at least four carriages could—and did—traverse it simultaneously. Hence, the noise.

Edmund Brandon, the Duke of Northumberland and proprietor of the stately house at the corner of the bustling avenue flinched at the bright sunlight when he pulled shut the carved walnut door of his four-story townhouse. How could people walk with such energetic sprints while he had no energy? He cast his gaze upon the majestic fa?ade of his residence and sniffed at the Grecian embellishments that adorned it. The architecture had an air of grandeur that was hard to ignore and impossible to live up to.

The sun cast a spotlight on him and the grandest estate on this side of Pall Mall. He was on stage, all eyes on him. He'd had nowhere to hide since his parents had died in a carriage accident just after he graduated from Oxford.

Speaking of evil eyes, his solicitor approached for his daily visit—Warren Brewster, short and stout, like a far too cheerful teapot with a balding spot where hair made room for the knob on the lid.

"Good morning, Brewster." Edmund pulled on his hat and turned right toward Hopkins Street.

"Where're you off to on this beautiful, sunny day?" Brewster asked.

"Apothecary."

"You didn't sleep?" Brewster balked as if it were abhorrent not to sleep well and wake refreshed, ready to enjoy the scorching morning rays. He stopped like a dog pulled by a leash in a direction he wasn't willing to go. "Piccadilly is this way. As is Regent Street."

"I know." Edmund strode in the opposite direction, hoping he'd give up and leave him alone.

Brewster struggled to keep up. "Why can't you take a stroll along the boulevards that give you—" he drew a circle in the air as if he'd just conceived of the backdrop for a Shakespeare play—"exposure."

"Exposure." Edmund rubbed his eyes. Parvenus, like Brewster, had attached to his heel like barnacles on a schooner.

"This way, Your Grace." Brewster grabbed his elbow and tugged at him. "We must parade you to the matrons shopping for suitable homes for their daughters' large dowries. Go on."

Enough! He wasn't just a home for a dowry, nor would he be paraded along Pall Mall as part of a buffet for debutantes. Edmund tore his arm from Brewster's grasp.

"You'll be at the opera alone!" Brewster shouted. "All eyes on you in a box for a duke without as much as a mistress!"

"Once and for all, Brewster, I don't care if all eyes are on me. They've always been. I have plenty to show for my title. I am the duke, not you."

"B-but I've always been there."

"Like a leech. I never asked for your advice. You follow me around in the House of Lords, picking up what I don't need."

Brewster opened his mouth and closed it like a fish gasping for water.

"I will not be trapped into a marriage of convenience or for diplomatic connections, to give you better business prospects."

"W-why else would you marry?" Brewster asked as if Edmund were making no sense.

Edmund folded his arm indignantly. "Love. Family."

"That's what mistresses can give. You can't think of only yourself when you choose a bride."

"Who says I want to choose? Perhaps Fate will send her to me. I won't parade myself like a show dog. Love doesn't go where ambition blocks the path to the heart."

"Nobody will grant your request for that futuristic environmental restoration plan if they hear you speak like that in Parliament. You'll have no credibility."

"And how do you intend to improve my credibility, Brewster? Hm ?"

"By drafting a proper plan for your presentation to the Lord Chancellor Marlowe."

"Nonsense! He'll hear me out."

"He won't listen if you don't show him that you have your personal affairs in order."

"Says who?" Edmund grimaced at the absurdity of it all. Brewster exerted more pressure on him than even his mother would if she were in Town for the season.

"Says Marlowe! ‘If a man can't control his home, he won't be able to manage his estate.'"

"He said that?"

"Yes."

"To you?"

"At the races."

"How grand for Marlowe to question my personal life while he's gambling his fortune on a horse."

Brewster shrugged. "He has sway in the House. He makes the rules."

"The laws are the rules, and he does not make them."

"He can prevent them from passing, just like the permits for your restoration plan." Brewster curled his lower lip, exposing his lower incisors, which were just as dull as his worldviews.

Edmund exhaled deeply. The sun was burning, and his black top hat was like a magnet for the heat.

"Look, if you showed off a pretty woman on opening night, he'd see you're at least courting someone respectable. It might be enough."

"I'm not going to the opera tonight, and I'm not bringing a woman."