Chapter One

Hyde Park, May 1815

"Life is a conundrum," Mr. Quinton Prendergast murmured under his breath.

To be fair, he thought, life was a perplexing event that knocked men senseless, then ambled off to wreak havoc elsewhere. Quin understood Society and the secret handshakes to which he wasn't privy, including the nods of approval and disdain—the latter serving him more often than the former. Last, but not least, a trip to London meant vicious backstabbing barbs and soot that blackened the landscape at every turn.

Twitching his nose with distaste, Quin snatched his cane in mid-air. Tightening his grip on the cold-crafted handle—a silver snarling lion—he considered himself the epitome of good taste for a man not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Verily, his walking stick was a testament to how far he'd come. It was his prized possession, a gift from Herr Meyer, the king staff maker in Hamburg. If the accoutrement was good enough for Parisian incroyables, by Jove, it was good enough for a farmer's son.

But Society held more against him than his birthright, and didn't he know it. Though he earned ￡3,000 a year—more than enough to wed a daughter of the ton—none encouraged him.

And therein lay the rub. The snub was a sting worse than salt applied to an open wound.

Lost in his thoughts and mulling over his lot in life, he walked on. The bustling avenue helped to buffer the bitterness seeking control as several young women promenaded toward him—two speaking to each other and one holding her eyes downcast. He tipped his hat in a grand gesture, offering salutations, ever hopeful of forming connections to a member of the opposite sex. While attempting a gallant bow, however, he lost his grip on his accoutrement and fumbled comically with it before it dropped to the ground with an irritating thump.

While he bent down to retrieve it, a miracle occurred. One of the women had, unbeknownst to him, darted forward and plucked the staff from the earth before he could reach it. He peered nervously at passersby, fearing for her reputation, and summoning all the dignity he possessed not to notice the spark of appreciation thrumming through him or the silent communication threading their bodies. But he couldn't resist. Her nearness had brightened his mood in the span of seconds as they nearly collided.

Who was she, this generous woman who risked everything for a stranger? He yearned to know her name, her direction, while his traitorous body responded with curiosity and something more—desire? Preposterous! He didn't even know her. But, oh, how he wanted to. She had a mind of her own, and reacted on instinct. And her bright eyes were blue like the color of Sevenoaks sky in June.

She blinked, her lashes sweeping across her rosy-pearl cheeks as she handed him back his cane. Her entrancing stare, bold and eager, penetrated the barriers he'd erected around his heart, making him wonder where she had been all his life.

"You dropped this."

"Thank you," he said longing to say more but not trusting himself. Just as surprisingly, he wanted their brief encounter to last a lifetime as an unbidden heat passed through him. "Clumsy of me." A doltish response. He decided to make up for it. "I am—"

"Good day to you, sir," she said abruptly. "I must go."

He guided her to her feet. "Must you?" Would he ever see her again? He had a sinking sensation that he wouldn't. "How can I repay such kindness?"

"You cannot. You must not." She glanced around. "I cannot be here."

"Good day, then," he said feeling the earth give away under his feet.

"Good day." She rejoined her two companions, looking back at him once before they moved on.

A keen sense of loss took hold, the speed and depth a cruel reality. In truth, crueler than the nights spent lobbying to place his name on a lady's dance card. He would most likely never meet his rescuer again. And that chance narrowed even further given the differences in their stations and the fact that a million souls inhabited London. Struck by an inexplicable feeling that he was watching his life walk away, and knowing that he was helpless to do anything but observe it happen, the pride and prejudice weighed him down more than ever before. Because he was not an aristocrat, Providence denied him a lifetime of happiness with her, and for that matter with a lady of any ilk. That was something he could never forget or forgive.

‘Fate leads him who follows it, and drags him who resist.'Plutarch understood destiny was a villain, a weasel, a snake, dangling delights before men only to snatch them away, willy-nilly.

But this was London, was it not? Dark and devilishly addictive, it enriched and enabled every vice and caprice.

Thiswas Society.

An outsider was expected to know his place. It was against the rules to introduce himself to a lady. A man of higher rank held the honors, a stark reminder that he did not bleed noble blood.

With a growl, he thumped the tip of his cane on the ground once more. I am worthy. "I am sensible, composed, and accustomed to getting my way," he said for the world to hear.

Isn't everyone?

No. The ton fashioned the order of things in the city, in the country. Rigid codes of conduct proclaimed a man superior or inferior to his lesser or betters.

I am worthy.

He tightened his fist; the tempest raging within him rearing its ugly head. He'd come to Town looking for a wife. Judging a man on merit proved to be sound, but denying a man the pathway to destiny because of his ancestry, or lack of it, was like planting a facer. Morality shaped men. Society did not. By the same token, the world hamstrung men with talent and potential, locking them into preconceived expectation and design.

While he did not boast an elevated pedigree, he had risen above his lot in life and forged himself into a gentleman by sheer determination and perseverance. His exceptional powers of observation, an aptitude he used to benefit both business and pleasure were talents his mentor, Jason Prendergast, had recognized and enhanced through extensive education.

Continuing his stroll by the Serpentine, he sought to calm the lingering effects of happenstance, trying without success to forget the blue-eyed beauty who'd made the world feel new and exciting. A rarity even a new racehorse couldn't provide.

Like many men in their prime, he'd abandoned the country for the city hoping to procure a wife. The age-old tradition had been good enough for bakers and blacksmiths and brawlers. Nevertheless, extracting a lady from the clutches of her doting mama had proven to be as difficult as defeating the Spartans at the gates of Thermopylae. He'd tread the shallow waters of Society carefully, enduring the rugged downpour of disparaging looks, the heated remarks intent on cracking his thin veneer. The ton was a vast, steep, impassable hill. But, unlike the Persians, he understood how to maneuver the narrow pass. Tactics required a lack of incredulity, broad shoulders to carry a mountain of wealth, endurance for places of scarcity, adeptness amid the thick crush, and learning to avoid the thorny barbs of the elite in highly effective forays, cutting men beneath them to ribbons.

He huffed. "The snobbery."

How did a man compete with dukes and earls and marquesses and viscounts? Like Leonidas surviving thousands of archers and a surge of Immortals. Holding council at dawn, all the while knowing the end loomed near.

Herodotus put Leonidas's fate succinctly. "‘Here they defended themselves to the last, those who still had swords using them, and the others resisting with their hands and teeth.'"

He had every intention of playing the game to win, no matter how many daughters were taken in by their mothers' pride, directly defended against marriage-seeking males. There was more to life than birthrights. He had much to offer. Thus far, however, his bearing, his manageable looks, his good fortune, had not counted enough to even secure a dance when a lady's eyes made it known she was willing.

What did the method to which he'd earned his fortune matter? Speculation and the sweat of his brow were testaments of gusto and grit. Absolute proof that he was capable of supporting a lady of substance with refinement and style, and remain doing so.

He'd gone to great extremes to attend balls, dinners and parties and the theater when he preferred to be elsewhere. Stabbing his cane into the earth, frustration seething below the surface, he mimicked the walking stick encroachments Herr Meyer had taught him. Though his height and weight were evenly distributed, there were times he needed the cane for support because of an unfortunate incident with a race horse. Moreover, there were aspects other than craftsmanship which appealed to him—functional, over and above fashionable aesthetics, aiding his capacity to protect himself.

One didn't just walk with a cane. A man wielded it. Positions like the fencer, brandishing the stick against persons he met. Assuming the unicorn, which called for projecting the tip forward as if charging his way through a crowd. Becoming the arguer, using the head of the stick persuasively. Many more combinations were emblazoned on his mind, but annoyance invaded his thoughts and he fell back into step.

Dark clouds hung low, with an occasional stab of sunshine slithering through. Hyde Park tended to be free of soot drifting above the city, and the unsettling conditions prevailing over the low country of late contributed to sodden ground. It had been a soggy spring and summer looked to be no different. Nevertheless, wigeons and woodlarks and whimbrels conversed about with effervescent, piercing calls, flying heavenly patterns above. The mating ritual mocking his attempts to find a wife.

He stabbed his cane into the ground. "Bollocks! How am I to procure a respectable wife when ladies refuse to acknowledge my presence?

He'd been on this marriage hunt for weeks and tired of the graceless pastime, longing for the privacy of home and hearth, and the assurances that Sevenoaks invoked. His inner turmoil heightened because, in a mad moment of vanity, he'd announced his intentions to marry and, now, he dared not return to Kent empty-handed. Especially after proclaiming he would recognize the woman he was destined to marry as clearly as he recognized a good racer.

A sweet voice drifted into his thoughts. "You dropped this."

He closed his eyes, conjuring up her image and cursing his run of bad luck. In a perfect world, he would have pursued her, learned her name, her direction—never let her go. But reality was cruel.

Aristotle warned men to use their senses to understand reality. Plato argued that ‘a true artist is one who gives birth to a new reality.' And then there was Sophocles. "‘Fortune is not on the side of the faint-hearted.'"

So, how did one win a losing hand?

"Bollocks!"

He stopped in his tracks, recalling his distant cousin's advice. "A good player does not limp or fold. A champion does not reveal weakness. Victors participate in good games. They play hard and fast, and attack aggressively, defending the blindside."

"Bess. Why haven't I thought of you before?" Her advice had benefited him well in the past, but it had been years since he'd last sought her counsel. She'd risen to prominence as the proprietress of a gambling den and was now a renowned matchmaker. Could she help him? Or was showing up on her stoop after all this time, and without word to the wise, unseemly? Dear cousin Bess had become Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the cunning mastermind of Whitehall.

Surely—

A boater rowed along the Serpentine, the powerful push and pull of the oars spanning the fifty-acre stretch, the flowing wake sending broadening ripples to shore. Long a favorite royal hunting ground and ring of fashion, the park housed deer, peacocks, ducks, and rabbits. The natural beauty called to him, easing his anxiety, and lured him into a false sense of security.

The petite blonde he'd briefly met flashed across his vision, stealing his breath. The look she'd given him suggested she'd felt something too. Devil take him, he should have followed her—discreetly, of course. He should have asked for her name and direction, though that would have marked him as lowly as he felt at the moment. No. He needed to push the woman out of his mind, unless... He grappled for anything that would help to identify her, recalling her beauty, winsome smile, and white moss-colored bonnet. The make of her exquisite morning gown trimmed with small silver buttons and tufts of silk and fine-pointed lace, led his eye to the intricate brooch at her neck. The cameo depicted a Lyre, flute, and theater mask, surrounded by precious gems.

Perhaps the owner would not be too difficult to find. Yes. Bess was his only hope. In these matters, she had contacts and experience dealing with the upper crust. Her serene speech and wisdom tethered men, leading them happily and non-too-happily to the altar.

"Dire straits frequently furnish lasting love,"she'd once confided.

He'd ignored her boast then, arrogantly believing that nature would take its course, that the woman he was meant to marry would basically fall into his lap. Like the magnificent creature who'd salvaged his cane.

He shook his head, warding off the woman's beautiful image. Bess was crafty. The success of the Lyon's Den proved it, as did his desire to see her well-situated after she'd mysteriously disappeared for several years. He'd found out she'd become a courtesan and married a colonel, only to be widowed shortly thereafter, inheriting mountains of debt only to reign at the head of a fortune envied by every trader in Threadneedle Street.

Though she was his distant cousin, they'd once been outcasts, products of humble beginnings. Her position had earned her a certain degree of respect within Society, so perhaps seeking her assistance would provide him hope.

Determination fueled him as several riders ambled by. The smell of leather and tackle tingled his senses, reminding him the sooner he acquired a wife, the better. Life had dealt him many blows. Stolen everyone he loved. Left him at the mercy of the world. He'd become accustomed to fending for himself, living without love, building things from the ground up. That didn't mean he wasn't ready for a change. He missed Sevenoaks, the stables, and the daily rides across wild fields at a breakneck pace on the North Downs. He equated his melancholy to what Hyde Park patrons must experience daily when viewing their much-beloved Marble Arch—adjacent to the old Tyburn gallows. Four years ago, someone cut down the double avenue of walnut trees at that point of entry, ruining the grandeur.

Time was a thief.

No one was immune.

His leg complained at the thought, the injury warning him he'd walked far enough. He leaned on his cane for support, refusing to accept defeat. He hadn't spent four months in bed, and another six relearning how to walk, only to give up now. Rather, he thought of himself as a survivor. And—just as he'd pushed himself beyond pain and desire to the breaking point, then—he would prevail now.

Being satisfied with his lot, however, wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted a helpmate, a friend, a wife, a compassionate woman unafraid to take chances.

How did a man who preferred libraries and stables to the crush of a ball acquire a wife?

He set out walking, assuming the gait of a Parthian, carrying his cane firmly before him, and slightly slanted upwards, completely ignorant of passersby. Then, reining in his stubborn pride, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.

Heads to visit Bess.

Tails, Sevenoaks.

With one swift motion, he let the coin fly, then caught it deftly in his fist before flattening it on his forearm. Hesitantly, he peeked. "Bess, it is."

If anyone knew how to bypass the ton and rummage up a wife, it was the revered abbess on Cleveland Row. Spinning on his heel, he arrowed his steps to Oxford Street and the rooms he'd let for the Season.

The Lyon's Den it was. There, he'd find the solution to all his problems.

Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Fed up with guarding potted palms like a wallflower, nodding and bowing to his betters, knowing he could never join the ton but longing to win a lady's heart, he intended to secure Bess's help.

But would fortune smile on him?