Chapter 3

… Have you any new interest in politics after spending the last eighteen months with His Majesty's Army, Will? You might be interested to know that the new Duke of Stanhope (Peter Kent, I'm sure you remember him) delivered as his maiden speech perhaps the most devastating opprobrium against slavery ever heard in the House of Lords. I am well pleased by his ascension to the peerage.

—from His Grace Nicholas Ravenscroft, Duke of Rowland, to his brother, Lord William Ravenscroft, His Majesty's Army, Seventh Division

"Tell me again," said Mohan Tagore, "why we are walking to Rowland House."

Peter made himself slow down to keep pace with his barrister's shorter strides. Then he realized he'd been whistling a Carnival song he hadn't thought of in years and he made himself stop that too.

"It's a fine day," he said. "Use your legs, Tagore. I have it on good authority that an unused muscle atrophies. I worry for you."

"Are you saying that if I were to gag you for a month or so, your tongue would atrophy? Because if so—"

"God forbid," Peter said. "I assure you, while you might not regret the loss of that particular organ, there are a number of ladies of my acquaintance who might disagree."

Tagore choked briefly on air. "I am going to pretend I did not hear that and ask you again why we are walking to Rowland House."

Peter took a moment to meditate on the question. He'd considered taking the Stanhope carriage to Tagore's office, picking up Tagore, and then having them conveyed together to Rowland's door. But it seemed too absurd—to ride barely a dozen streets to Tagore's office, then back again as far to Rowland House—when they could walk. The sky was painfully blue, a color that made him think of Louisiana with the mixture of love and nostalgia and loss that he'd felt ever since he'd arrived in England with the Earl of Clermont two years prior.

He wanted to look at the sky. He wanted to talk to Tagore before they got into Rowland House and everything became all caution and pleading-without-seeming-to-plead.

"Or perhaps," Tagore said, apparently tired of waiting for Peter to answer, "you might tell me why we are meeting at Rowland House at all."

"I want to talk to Rowland about the next six weeks. I want to see if he has any ideas as to how we might make the lord chancellor more amenable to our petition."

In six weeks, Peter's petition for guardianship of Freddie and Lu would come before Lord Eldon, the chancellor of the High Court. And unless something changed quite drastically in that span of time, Peter was going to lose.

"Eldon is a problem," Tagore agreed. "But I meant, rather—why Rowland House? You are a member of Rowland's club, are you not?"

Peter was. He was fairly certain Rowland had exerted no small amount of pressure to encourage the manager of Brooks's to extend a sponsorship to him, because he'd been offered membership nearly a year before his ducal elevation. Rowland was brilliant at those sorts of things—easing the way, making the track smooth. Peter had never had the talent for it. Nor the inclination, even, until he'd moved to England.

"I wanted you to talk to Rowland as well," he said easily. "You'll be at the Court of Chancery with me, and Rowland will not. I'm hopeful he'll have some suggestions."

Tagore drummed his fingers against his thigh. "It's a challenge. Lord Eldon moves in entirely different political circles than Rowland, for all that Rowland is a duke. Rowland's a Whig, a reformer, and Eldon is the most entrenched of the Tories."

"I know it. I'm hopeful that we might be able to think of another approach. Not direct political pressure, but… something."

"Rowland isn't in the habit of bribery. Nor Eldon, for that matter."

"No bribes," Peter said. Not that he would be opposed to bribery, if it would get him Freddie and Lu, but he'd already talked the matter over with Tagore and decided it wasn't practicable. But he was damned if he was going to let his brother and sister go without a fight.

He had lost a sibling, back in New Orleans, when they had both been children.

He would not let it happen again, not for all the dukedom or for all the world. There had to be something they could do. There had to be another way.

And he wanted to talk to Selina Ravenscroft.

That, as much as he couldn't say it aloud to his barrister, was the reason they were going to Rowland House. At Brooks's, Selina wouldn't be there. At a ball, he couldn't lay his cards on the table in front of her and watch her clever, busy mind puzzle away at the problem.

In the two years since he'd met her, he'd seen her at work a number of times. She distracted maidenly aunts to help facilitate unchaperoned marriage proposals. She rearranged conversational groups, murmuring in response to his curious glance, "Lady Stratton can't abide the Earl of Puddington. I'd hate to see fisticuffs ruin my aunt's party."

He'd seen her identify a fragile dowager missing a glove from across a crowded room and produce a new glove as if from nowhere.

Once, at the Breightmets', he'd seen her thrust her friend Lydia Hope-Wallace into a potted palm. He'd watched with interest as Lydia had cast up her accounts, hidden from all passersby, and then stood by in frank amazement as Selina somehow managed to remove Lydia from the ball without a single other person seeming to notice their departure.

Just last December, she'd organized the elopement of Clermont—who had become one of Peter's closest companions—and her own dear friend Faiza Khan. Clermont and Faiza had given every impression of despising each other. Peter had been quite certain no one but he knew that Clermont carried Faiza's earring in his pocket like a blasted talisman.

But Selina must have known. She had certainly known some thing, because one day Clermont and Faiza had been shouting at one another over dinner and the next they were well on their way to Scotland, in a post-chaise personally hired by Selina.

She was so damned efficient. She seemed like she could be in two places at once. She could light up the room like the most popular woman of the beau monde, but he'd also seen her fade into the background when she chose to. Though how she managed that, he had no idea, what with her acres of honey-blond hair and that wide, expressive mouth.

And her eyes, light amber, like a cat's eyes, or a wolf's. He'd thought about those eyes from time to time these last two years.

Not as often, though, as he'd thought about how infernally clever she was, and how much he liked that about her. She fixed things, like her brother—but not in his same way. Rowland was a politician, all careful talk and social grace and terrifying ethical code. Selina wasn't afraid to sneak about, to hide in a potted plant or steal a glove if she had to.

And when he'd seen the way Lu had warmed to her, and the way Selina had known instinctively how to win Lu's confidence, it had occurred to him suddenly that if anyone might have a fresh thought about how he could gain custody of his siblings, it would be Selina Ravenscroft.

He was still thinking about her when they arrived at Rowland House.

The butler ushered them inside and set out to determine if His Grace was receiving callers.

"And Lady Selina," Peter added. "I'd like to see His Grace and Lady Selina."

He felt rather than saw Tagore's sharp dark-eyed gaze.

Like a penknife, that look.

"Social call, is it?" said Tagore blandly.

"No," Peter said. "No. Have you met Lady Selina?"

"I have not had the pleasure. Rowland's sister?"

"That's right. When you meet her, you'll see why I want her here as well."

Tagore snorted. "I'm sure I will."

Peter ignored him, and the butler returned to deliver them into a drawing room decorated in blues and creams. Nicholas Ravenscroft, the Duke of Rowland, stood to greet them as they entered. He was tall and dark-haired, perhaps half a dozen years older than Peter's own nine-and-twenty. His wife, Daphne, was there as well, a welcoming smile on her face and her riotous mahogany curls springing in all directions.

And in the corner of the room, rising to her feet from a leather armchair, was Selina.

Today she wore demure white, and there was no trace of the immense green thing she'd had on her head when he'd met her on Bond Street. He couldn't quite say whether he missed it—he'd rather admired the way she had worn it, all defiance, as if it were a crown and not a hat the size of a barque. Her gloves were neatly buttoned at her wrists, and she gave him the politest of curtsies as he greeted her. Her eyes were downcast, and for just a moment he doubted this whole damned thing.

Then she looked up, and that fierce tawny gaze caught his, and he knew down to his bones that he'd been right to think of her.

And he had the strangest thought then: that he'd been right every time he'd thought of her. That every time she had crossed his mind—her keen wit and her capable manner and even, if he were being honest with himself, the plump curve of her mouth and the tender spot at the nape of her neck—every time, it had been right. That she belonged exactly there, inside his head.

Which was ridiculous, even for him.

He shook off the peculiar notion and seated himself as the duchess poured tea for all of them. He noticed when Daphne stripped off her gloves that there were ink stains on her fingers, and he recalled that she was intimately involved in the stewardship of several of their country estates. He wondered if asking all of the Ravenscrofts for advice about how to manage his affairs would be a bit beyond the pale.

They made polite small talk for a few minutes, and then Selina helpfully directed the conversation where Peter wanted it to go.

"And did you see your brother and sister safely home to Aunt Rosamund then?" she asked, her fingers nudging her teacup to the exact center of its saucer.

"I did, yes," Peter said, and then turned to the rest of the group to explain. "Lady Selina had the rather adulterated pleasure of meeting my brother and sister last week in town while I took them shopping."

One corner of Selina's mouth quirked up, but she didn't say anything about the fencing, which was probably good, since he wanted Rowland to think of him as a responsible guardian and not an impulsive degenerate who would permit his sister to behave like a hoyden.

Which he was. And she did.

"How did they enjoy London?" asked Daphne. "Remind me again how old they are. I think they're quite a bit older than our boys, are they not?"

"My sister Lucinda is twelve," Peter said. "My brother Frederick is ten." He took this opening to outline in circumspect detail their background—attempting to be mindful of faux pas such as "talking about your father's sexual escapades in the company of ladies" and "insulting benevolent elderly women."

"We've been laying the groundwork these last two years, preparing legal arguments and encouraging a relationship between Stanhope and the children," Tagore said. "But we didn't want to put forth the application for guardianship until His Grace inherited. Once that happened, I petitioned the lord chancellor immediately. Our case is set to go before him six weeks hence."

Rowland toyed with his cravat. "Eldon is the sticking point. If you'd gotten the new vice chancellor, Plumer, I wouldn't be so concerned. But Eldon…" He trailed off.

Selina's brows were drawn together. "Nicholas, I don't understand. Why wouldn't Stanhope automatically be granted the guardianship, as you were?"

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Selina's lips pursed. "I mean—that is to say—I know what natural children are. I understand why the guardianship wouldn't be assumed." Peter noted with fascination the flush that slowly worked its way up the fair skin of her neck. In the last two years, he'd rarely seen her blush. Even the first time they'd met—when he'd stumbled upon her in the woods, still damp from bathing in a stream at her country estate—she had not blushed, merely delivered a scorching glare.

He had to admit, he liked that sweet strawberry flush on her skin. Rather alarmingly.

He had seen her grind her teeth on numerous occasions, and she was doing that now too. "I simply meant that I don't understand why this is a problem. Stanhope is a duke. He wants his siblings. What could possibly be the difficulty?"

"The problems," Peter said, "are twofold. First, my father never formally acknowledged the children. In fact, I don't believe he recognized them at all. We know from the Stanhope account books that their mother went to my grandfather for financial support, not to my father. Between Tagore and my Sussex steward, we've produced any number of records that show that the previous duke supported them for years, but they aren't mentioned in his will or my father's. For all legal purposes, I might as well be a stranger who's come to snatch them from the clutches of the court's noble servant, Great-great-aunt Rosamund."

Selina took that in with a stubborn set to her jaw. "Nonetheless. We are all here well acquainted with the power of a dukedom. Whyever would Eldon stand in your way?"

"Eldon was born the son of a coal-fitter," Nicholas said. "He's rather less impressed by the peerage than you might expect, for all that he's now Baron Eldon and the voice of the king in the High Court."

"But what objection could he possibly have to Stanhope's taking the children?"

"Me," Peter said, wincing at the bluntness even as he said it. "His objection is me."

"I see," said Selina, though her expression said plainly that she did not.

"I have not endeared myself to Eldon this year," Peter continued. "Or any year, in point of fact. He has a particular sense of English pride that resents the sudden elevation of an American upstart to the highest levels of the government."

"But your father was English," protested Selina.

"Yes," Peter said, "and my mother was French. To many, the latter is more consequential."

"And, as I may have mentioned," Nicholas added, "Eldon is a Tory. The worst of them. He hates reformers with a passion. Thinks England was at its best in 1688."

"It would have been better," Peter said, "if I had not made that speech in the Lords just after I took my seat."

Tagore muffled a snort, and Daphne coughed a laugh into her teacup.

"What speech?" Selina asked. "What happened?"

"It was," Nicholas said delicately, "certainly rousing."

Peter spun his teacup in its saucer and then watched in some horror as tea arced up the sides of the cup and sloshed onto the porcelain beneath. "I argued for total abolition of slavery across all British colonies. In a few, er, choice words."

"‘The greatest practical evil ever inflicted upon members of the human race,' I believe it was," said Nicholas. "‘The severest and most extensive calamity in the history of the world and an irremediable stain on our national character.'"

"Er," Peter said. "Yes."

And though he'd always known that Rowland was perhaps his strongest ally in the Lords on the question of abolition, the fact that Rowland seemed to have memorized the words he'd used to condemn slavery was…

Well, Peter felt speechless for perhaps the first time in his life.

"I begin to see the problem," Selina said. "You are requesting a favor from a man who is not disposed to like you, whom you have sparred with politically, and who has no legal requirement to give you what you want."

"All that," Tagore said, "and then there was the cognac."

"Oh for God's sake," Peter said. "I couldn't possibly have known about the cognac."

Nicholas arched one dark eyebrow. "I am unaware of this particular concern."

Tagore's eyes were gleaming like he'd just been handed a brand-new inkpot, or whatever the hell barristers liked. "Before His Grace inherited the title, it came to his attention that his grandfather was a particular connoisseur of cognac, and so before the former Stanhope passed on, the current Stanhope—"

"Kent," Peter interrupted. "I beg you. Call me Kent. This story makes no sense when everyone involved has the same title."

Tagore waved his fingers in dismissal. "Fine. Kent here decided he wanted his grandfather to have the very best in cognac before his death."

"Before his death," Peter clarified. "I am not dead in this story."

He was pretty sure Daphne laughed again. Selina shot him a chastening glare.

"Not yet," mumbled Tagore. "In any case, Kent talked to Stanhope's steward and found out where the man used to purchase the highest-quality bottles—smuggled, of course, because they are produced in France. Begging your pardon, Lady Selina, Your Grace."

"I am aware of smuggling," said Selina.

"Indeed. Er. Of course. In any event, that particular cognac was no longer for sale. So Kent hired a band of highwaymen—"

"Blatant defamation," said Peter. "They were perfectly respectable members of their own particular kind of trade—"

"A band of highwaymen," Tagore said, rolling right over his objection, "to steal the cognac from the smugglers. And they did. All eighteen barrels of it."

Nicholas appeared on the point of speaking, then stuffed an iced biscuit into his mouth instead.

"I really don't know what they were thinking," Peter said. "Eighteen barrels! I meant for them to take a bottle."

"But the real problem," continued Tagore, "is that the smugglers had been hired personally by Lord Eldon. He is, as it turns out, obsessed with cognac himself. And those eighteen barrels were the last production of an ancient distillery that was destroyed by Napoleon's armies."

"They were very expensive," said Peter morosely. "Thousands of pounds."

"And Kent stole them all. And then, because he did not want to store eighteen barrels of illegally obtained cognac in his house, he had them decanted and passed the extra bottles out to every public house and tavern in the county of Sussex."

"So now," Peter said, taking up the story, "Eldon is buying up every single bottle, one public house at a time. But the word has gotten out about the cognac, and the tavernkeepers are all charging him twenty times what they're worth." Twenty thousand pounds. Surely Eldon could not want to spend twenty thousand pounds on French brandy.

"Good heavens," said Daphne. "I'm not sure you could have made a more calculated project of indisposing Eldon if you'd tried."

"Believe me," said Peter. "I did not try."

"Did your grandfather like the cognac?" Selina asked.

Peter felt his chest twist. God, what a question. Had he ever met a woman so clever and also so damned sweet?

"Yes," he said. "He liked it very much."

Nicholas looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or tear off his cravat in disgust. "Stanhope, you have not exactly made this easy on yourself."

"I know," Peter said. "I know." He couldn't stop himself from rising, though he knew it wasn't quite the thing. But he had to move. He had to do something . Damn him, he would not accept that his own recklessness had lost him the chance of getting custody of his brother and sister. He couldn't accept it. He meant to care for them, to protect them, and he would manage it, no matter what it took. Even if it meant becoming an altogether different kind of man.

He walked to the window and pressed a finger to the glass, then rubbed the smudge clear with the sleeve of his coat.

Back in New Orleans, he hadn't been able to protect his brother, Morgan, and Morgan had died. But Peter was grown now. He was a goddamned peer of the realm. He would not let his father hurt these children—not through neglect or cruelty. Not even from the grave.

"Your Grace," said Tagore, "have you any influence in Eldon's circle?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Nicholas said. "I will certainly exert what pressure I can. But Eldon isn't in the Lords now—though I have it on good authority that he would be open to such a thing when he leaves the Court of Chancery. I hate to say this, Stanhope, but I'm not sure how much I can help."

When she spoke, Selina's voice sounded almost abstracted. "What else do you know about Eldon?"

Peter turned away from the window to look at her. Her eyes were half narrowed, and her lips compressed as she looked into the middle distance.

Nicholas fiddled absently with his cuffs. "He's a Tory. He supported Pitt for prime minister. He has been painfully resistant to any calls to reform the courts, despite the backlog of cases and the shocking bureaucratic inefficiency of the system."

"Not about politics," said Selina. "What do you know of him ? Eldon. What's his name?"

"Lord Eldon? John, I think," Nicholas said. "John Scott."

"He's from Newcastle," put in Tagore. "You can hear his northern accent when he speaks."

"What does he care about?" Selina asked.

"England," said Nicholas. "And our sterling national character."

Peter winced.

"Cognac, apparently," said Daphne.

"Perhaps Stanhope could deliver him cognac?" suggested Selina. "Or—perhaps not. Mayhap we should avoid reminders of your past misdeeds."

"They say he was a rotter at school," Nicholas said consideringly. "A devil for pranks and truancy."

"Is that right?" said Tagore, looking suddenly intrigued.

"And of course," said Nicholas, "there was the matter of his wife."

Four gazes fixed on Rowland with interest.

"Eldon kidnapped her. Quite famously."

Selina's brows climbed nearly to her hairline. "He kidnapped her?"

"Well," Nicholas temporized, "perhaps kidnapped is not the word. He was a law student at Oxford, at home on school break, when he fell violently in love with the daughter of a neighbor. Both sides objected to the match—his parents wanted him to focus on his studies, and her family thought the son of a coal-fitter beneath them. They wouldn't back down, and so Eldon removed her from her family home by way of a window in the dead of night, carried her off to Scotland, and married her on the morrow."

"Now, that," Selina said, "is something."

"Do you think to appeal to Lady Eldon?" asked Daphne. "Does she live in London with the chancellor, Nicholas?"

"I believe so. I understand them to be quite a devoted couple."

Daphne tapped an ink-stained finger on her chin. "Shall we have them over for dinner?" she asked. "Is that too transparent?"

"Not at all," said Nicholas. "I'm happy to arrange it, Stanhope, if you like."

"Yes," said Peter. "Anything you think might help."

"I like this idea," said Selina. "I'd like very much to speak to Lady Eldon. But I wonder…" She trailed off, her fingers absently nudging the cup on her saucer again. "I wonder…" Her eyes came up again and fixed on Peter's. He felt her gaze almost like a tug, pulling at him from across the room, and he took a half step toward her before he could stop himself.

"Call here again," she said. "Tomorrow. I want to talk to Lydia Hope-Wallace first. And then I want to talk to you."

She had something in mind. Peter was certain of it—not just from what she'd said, but by her eyes, distant with concentration, and the decided set of her jaw. She had an idea, and he knew her well enough to think it would be a good one.

He felt a sudden rush of warmth that he recognized as relief, because… Because for the first time since he'd learned that Lu and Freddie's mother had died, Peter thought that the children might just be all right.

Although now that he thought about it, there was something about the stubborn angle of her head that reminded him a bit alarmingly of Lu.

"You don't think I should kidnap the children, do you?" he asked. "I mean, I would do it. But I'm not sure I'd survive the experience, now that Lu has a sword."

"Um," said Selina. "No. I do not think you should kidnap the children. I would… No. Certainly not."

This was something of a relief, though in truth he'd already started spinning out ideas for how he might lure them out a window in the middle of the night. Tiny kittens armed with tinier spears, perhaps. éclairs in the shape of épées.

Tagore seemed to be shaking his head. "I am going to pretend that I did not hear that, Stanhope."

"Nothing to hear," Peter said, and he strolled back toward his teacup from where he'd been standing at the window. "Cookie?"

"Perhaps one for the road," Tagore said, and shortly thereafter they took their leave of the Ravenscrofts. Peter caught himself whistling again and tried to tamp down the sudden emotion that had blossomed inside him at Rowland House: relief and cautious hope and bright amber eyes.