Chapter 1

ACCUSED MURDERESS IN LONDON. I must draw attention to the reappearance of Lady Olivia Allen in London, upon whom several suspicions have been piled. Of note, the death of her husband two years ago. I advise all men in want of a wife to take heed, lest you befall the same fate.

London, June 15, 1861

Olivia Heather, the Countess Dowager Allen, slammed the newspaper onto the garden table, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. Not that anyone would notice. All the other tables on the terrace were empty, despite it being one of the few places where Mrs. Zephyr’s guests could find shelter from the blazing sunlight.

“I assume the meeting with the editor did not go well,” Olivia’s friend Saffron Mayweather, the Viscountess Briarwood, said as she tucked a lock of black hair that had fallen out of her coiffure back into place. There was a slight roundness to her face, but the diagonal pleating of her lilac day gown hid all other signs of her pregnancy.

Olivia remembered how the editor of the London Evening Standard had sneered from across his desk. She put her hands in her lap and squeezed her fan so tight that the wood creaked. “I cannot expect assistance from that quarter.”

All men had a price, but Mr. Ainsley could not be bought with money, at least not by a woman. She might have tried to convince him to stop publishing the articles anyway, but she didn’t trust him to keep his word even if she paid him a fortune. The scandal had made the London Evening Standard the most popular newspaper in town.

“What are you going to do?” Saffron asked. Her eyes glittered with the same excitement as they had several months prior, when Olivia had attempted to help her unmask the anonymous artist Ravenmore in an effort to locate Saffron’s missing brother. That was before they’d learned Viscount Briarwood was Ravenmore, and Saffron’s brother had died in the same boat accident that had killed the viscount’s sister.

“As it happens, I did not come away from my meeting with the editor empty-handed,” Olivia said. She removed a folded piece of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table. “I snatched this from his desk before he threw me out.”

Saffron unfolded the paper and squinted as she brought it close to her face. “Remarkable. There is actually someone whose handwriting is worse than yours.”

Olivia grabbed for the paper, but Saffron jerked away. “Yes, yes.” She cleared her throat and read, “ Mr. Ainsley, Please ensure the attached article is printed in tomorrow’s paper. Your usual fee is attached. Sincerely, Lowell .” She flipped the paper over but did not read it aloud. Olivia was grateful. She had no desire to hear the vile accusations in her friend’s voice.

Saffron handed the paper back. “I haven’t seen the Marquess of Lowell in years. What reason would he have for attacking you?”

Olivia returned the letter to her pocket. “I wish I knew.”

In the hours since learning his name, she had discovered exactly two facts about the marquess: his wife had died shortly after bearing a daughter, and the family had not been seen in society since.

A small part of her envied him. As much as she’d enjoyed her popularity before the articles, Lady Allen was nothing but a mask she’d crafted through two decades of careful observation from her husband’s shadow. Her true self, the Olivia who held entire conversations without making eye contact and flapped her hands when she was excited, would never be accepted in society.

The Earl of Allen had made that lesson abundantly clear.

A high-pitched squeal drew her attention to the lawn, where a gaggle of children chased a tall woman in a pale-green day dress. The woman swished a wand through the air, forming hundreds of bubbles that floated above the shrieking children and vanished into the gently waving boughs of the trees above them.

“Is that Mrs. Gilly?” Saffron asked, gesturing to the woman. “I hardly recognize her without a book clutched in her arms.”

Olivia smiled. “She was one of my first clients.”

After two unsuccessful seasons, Seraphina’s parents had begged Olivia to take the quiet, awkward girl under her wing. In a matter of weeks, Seraphina had wed Mr. Gilly, a textiles merchant, and all reports indicated their marriage was a happy one.

Olivia’s smile fell. Since the articles had started, not a single mama had approached her to sponsor their daughter. Her schedule, once bustling with visits to modistes and milliners, had slowed to a crawl.

“I could ask my husband to speak to Lord Lowell,” Saffron said, sliding her fork through a slice of lemon cake. She took a bite, then wrinkled her nose.

“Too sweet?” Olivia asked. She picked up a fork and speared the slice of strawberry from atop the cake. The surfeit of fresh fruit on display in the refreshment room was impressive but hardly a display of wealth. Strawberries were in season and therefore plentiful.

“Too sour.” Saffron slid the plate across the table. “Leo can be properly intimidating. I am certain he could convince the marquess to cease his writing.”

Olivia ate a piece of the “too sour” cake, giving herself a moment to come up with a response. She didn’t want to insult her friend, but she wasn’t interested in having another man solve her problem.

Ten years of marriage had taught her the importance of self-sufficiency.

The cake was sublime, with a coarse crumb that melted on her tongue and a layer of chopped strawberries in icing. She finished the entire piece, then set her fork down. “While I appreciate Lord Briarwood’s physical prowess, I believe a more delicate hand is required.” She tapped her finger on the newspaper. “The marquess might have more resources at his disposal, but I have yet to meet a gentleman who could turn away a woman in distress.”

Once she discovered where he was hiding, she would don a heavy cloak and show up at his door at dawn with tears in her eyes. In the unlikely event he refused her, she would bring her burliest manservant to guarantee admittance. Then she would negotiate in a way only a woman could.

“Perhaps that will not be necessary,” Saffron said. “Considering he just arrived.”

Olivia whipped her neck around and followed her friend’s gaze to the crowd gathered around an absolute mountain of a man in a charcoal suit standing at the bottom of the steps to the terrace. His black hair flowed down a square jaw into a thick beard and mustache liberally dusted with silver.

The way Lord Lowell tilted his head and clenched his hands into fists at his sides suggested a deep unease. Considering how long he had been a recluse, she was not surprised. She also found it difficult to re-don her Lady Allen mask after a significant amount of time away from society, as if her body had forgotten the movements.

She realized she was squeezing her fan again and forcibly relaxed her muscles. This was her chance to confront him. If her marriage had taught her anything, it was that men responded favorably to women who were willing to stroke their egos, among other things.

“That must be his daughter,” Saffron said. “I haven’t seen Constance since she was a babe.”

Olivia wrenched her attention away from Lord Lowell. There was indeed a slip of a girl in a peach gown pressed to his side. The girl stepped forward and made a perfect curtsey before Mrs. Zephyr, who had cut her way through the crowd to greet the new arrivals. Their host, who was only a few years older than Saffron, all but bounced out of her frothy, pink gown as she greeted the marquess. Her words were lost amid the murmur of the crowd, but it was easy to guess what she was saying.

“ Oh, how utterly lovely, how wonderful to meet you ,” Olivia said in falsetto, as Mrs. Zephyr ran her white-gloved fingers through the loose, blonde curls at her nape. “ Please do admire this expensive, hideous gown. I chose it just for you, my lord. ”

Saffron snorted. “That’s probably not even much of an exaggeration.”

Lord Lowell’s tense posture did not alter as Mrs. Zephyr held out a hand in a move clearly intended to pressure him into giving her his arm. Instead, he gave a sharp bow, then ascended the steps to the terrace with Constance at his side.

“Quite a cut,” Saffron said. “Mrs. Zephyr does not look pleased.”

Olivia was too busy watching Lord Lowell to care about their host’s sensibilities. It could not have been more perfect. She would not have to arrange a private audience, because his path led directly to her table.

He reached the top of the steps, and his gaze met hers. Although she couldn’t see his lips from beneath his wiry beard, the lines around his eyes suggested a smirk.

He stopped a respectable distance away and inclined his head. “Lady Allen.” Then he turned to Saffron. “Miss Summersby. My mother sends her regards.”

“It’s Lady Briarwood now,” Saffron said. “My aunt will be pleased to learn you have returned to town. How long will you be staying?”

“That is yet to be determined.” He lowered his voice. “May we join your table? There is a matter I wish to discuss.”

Gooseflesh pebbled Olivia’s arms. His voice was so deep. She imagined his head between her thighs, his thick beard caressing her most sensitive areas, his rumbling baritone vibrating her flesh. The sheer size of him suggested she would not come away unsatisfied.

What am I thinking?

The man was a blackguard. He had ruined her life. She should have been thinking of ways to bend him to her will, not imagining them in bed together. No matter how attractive she found him.

The silence stretched. Saffron coughed delicately into her napkin.

Olivia straightened her shoulders. “Of course. We would welcome your company.”

Before she had even finished speaking, he was pulling out a chair for his daughter, as if the thought of her refusing him, a marquess, had never entered his mind. It was true, but that didn’t dampen her anger in the slightest.

At least he waited for his daughter to sit before doing the same.

“You should apologize for our rudeness, Father,” Lady Constance said. “It was not appropriate to impose upon Lady Allen’s time without first requesting an introduction.”

Lady Constance was as much a surprise as her father. Olivia recognized the careful hand of a governess who was plentiful with both correction and praise, rather than punishing every perceived slight. The girl could not be older than nineteen, yet she displayed the poise of a mature woman.

The footman returned with two other servants. One placed a three-tiered stand of fruit-laden cakes on their table, a second set down four glasses of lemonade, and a third provided them with additional plates.

“No need to apologize,” Olivia said. “Our actions will have convinced the watchers below that we are of long acquaintance. I see no reason to correct anyone of that notion.”

Settling their dispute would be awkward enough without Mrs. Zephyr hovering over them.

Lord Lowell’s shoulders sank. “Then you have surmised my intent. Excellent. I fear I have spoken to, and been rejected by, every matron in London.”

“You have… what?” The conversation wasn’t heading in the direction she’d expected. “Surely, there is a more pressing matter for us to discuss.”

He frowned. “What might that be?”

The man was either obtuse or frustrating her on purpose. “What do you want from me, Lord Lowell?”

He blinked several times before shaking his head. “As you wish, I will be direct. I desire your services as a matchmaker.”

Saffron paused her fork midway to her mouth. “You cannot be serious.”

Olivia kicked her friend’s shin. She was beginning to understand his ploy. He had soured her reputation, driving all other mamas away, to force her to accept his daughter. He needn’t have bothered. She would not have rejected the daughter of a marquess, even if her schedule had been packed.

Lord Lowell’s strategy would have met with her former husband’s approval. The Earl of Allen had derived much enjoyment from manipulating and tormenting others.

She throttled back her temper. “You want me to find a husband for your daughter?”

His frown returned. “If that is acceptable. I understand your services are in high demand.”

Saffron made a choking sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Olivia’s jaw ached. How dare he make light of her misfortune? He was well aware her services were not in high demand, and it was his fault. First, he had accused her of murdering her late husband, then compounded the indignity by implying she was seeking another man to marry and repeat the crime.

“I can fit her into my schedule,” she said through clenched teeth. Then, to distract herself from committing an act that would wipe the ridiculous look of relief from his face, she turned her attention to his daughter. “Do you wish for a gentle introduction to society?”

Lady Constance shook her head, making the flowers tucked into her curls bounce. “I would prefer to leap in .” She plucked a strawberry from the top of a piece of cake on the bottom tier of the stand and popped it in her mouth.

“Constance,” Lord Lowell said in a long-suffering tone.

The girl picked up the strawberry-less cake and placed it on her plate. “Sorry.”

The interaction between them was both amusing and surprising.

Olivia was used to demanding mamas but had never met a father or guardian who had any interest in his daughter’s future husband beyond the usual contractual matters.

Proper title and breeding. Sufficient funds to support a wife. Ideally, property.

Coincidentally, those were the same criteria most managing mamas cared about.

“You should know I do not promise a match,” she said. “Nor will I agree to trap a man.”

She’d seen far too many women resort to such tactics, arranging compromising situations to force a man’s hand. Somehow, they never considered the husband they caught would hold significant power over his new wife.

Olivia knew all too well how it felt to be in such a position.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Lord Lowell said. He glanced at Saffron, then blurted out, “Love. That is the condition all other matrons have refused. I will allow nothing less than a love match for my daughter.”

Olivia was rendered speechless. She thought it was another joke, but he wasn’t laughing.

Saffron stuffed a small cake into her mouth, her eyes wide.

“I have arranged dozens of matches, my lord,” Olivia said, choosing her words with care. “I can assure you; love does not simply spark into existence the way one lights a match.”

She had learned that lesson the hard way. If it were not for her youthful folly, she might have saved herself ten years of misery. As far as she was concerned, only children believed in love. She glanced at Constance, who was staring at her plate with a small smile on her face, seemingly uninterested in the conversation they were having about her future. That was curious. In Olivia’s experience, most girls on the cusp of their debut struggled to contain their excitement, no matter how strict their upbringing. But how the girl felt about marriage was of little consequence, as her father would make the most important decisions on her behalf.

Olivia turned her attention back to Lord Lowell. “You might find compatibility is a better foundation for a marriage.”

He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Mrs. Zephyr rushing across the terrace toward them. When she reached them, she fluffed her voluminous skirts. “Lord Lowell, I thought I would give you a tour of the grounds. You and your lovely daughter. There are several eligible young men I could introduce her to.”

Olivia hissed in a breath. Mrs. Zephyr was trying to usurp her position, likely in an attempt to endear herself to the wealthy and widowed marquess.

“I’m afraid Lord Lowell and Lady Constance are presently engaged,” Olivia said. “We were just discussing the particulars of Lady Constance’s debut, under my sponsorship.”

Mrs. Zephyr drew herself up. “Lord Lowell, you are newly returned to London. I insist you do not make such an important decision so rashly.”

Olivia slid her chair back at the same time as Saffron, but Lord Lowell beat them both to his feet.

“I find myself unimpressed with the fare,” he said. “Lady Allen, I would be pleased if you would call upon us tomorrow morning. Constance, let us proceed to our next engagement at the Duke of Haversham’s estate.”

“The wild duke?” Mrs. Zephyr staggered back a step. “I-I shall not keep you, my lord. Please, give the duke my regards.” Then she whirled back down the stairs.

Far from being cowed by Mrs. Zephyr’s outburst, Olivia felt invigorated in a way she hadn’t in weeks. Society expected her to bow down before the rumors and descend the social hierarchy. She would show them she would not bend to mere gossip. As furious as she was with the marquess for being the cause of her misfortune, accepting his daughter as her client would allow her to grow closer to him and make him pay for what he had done. Lord Lowell’s daughter would find a love match if it was the last thing she did.