Chapter 4

… I had a letter from Selina just last week that mentioned Stanhope as well. I am almost afraid to inquire: Whose new project is he? Selina's or yours?

—from Will Ravenscroft to his brother, Nicholas, posted from Brussels

The morning after the Duke of Stanhope's fascinating interview at Rowland House, Selina sat again in the drawing room.

This time she was in her stocking feet, her legs curled up beneath her on the cream-colored divan, chewing on her lower lip and waiting for her best friend, Lydia Hope-Wallace, to arrive.

She'd dropped by the Hope-Wallace residence—just half a street away from Rowland House—the previous day, but Lydia had been out with her mother, doubtless being tormented at a modiste or a milliner. And why Mrs. Hope-Wallace could not leave Lydia well enough alone, Selina would never understand. They were richer than Croesus. Like Selina herself, Lydia certainly did not have to marry, and torturing her by thrusting her into the public eye at every single engagement to which they were invited had not, thus far, produced results that Lydia or her mother were happy with.

With her four older brothers and even with the Ravenscrofts, Lydia was a gem. She was far and away the cleverest woman Selina had ever met, with an encyclopedic knowledge of parliamentary politics and a head for gossip that rivaled any dowager.

But at balls and dinners—anywhere she was expected to make conversation among large groups of people—Lydia was too terror-stricken to speak.

The Marriage Mart had not been pleasant for Lydia. The 1815 Season was her fourth—she, like Selina, was three-and-twenty—and her mother, rather than resigning herself to Lydia's lack of popularity, seemed bent on redoubling her efforts. Lydia had more gowns and hats than a member of the royal family. "As if a peacock feather on my head," she'd said briskly to Selina in an undervoice at a recent dinner, "might distract a gentleman from my inability to unlock my jaw in his presence."

Selina had left a card for Lydia at the Hope-Wallace residence, and Lydia had dashed off a note in response that said she would call this morning. So Selina was back in the drawing room, demolishing a scone and tapping a quill pen against a sheet of foolscap while she waited for her friend to arrive.

When their butler finally announced Lydia, Selina had crumbled the scone into pieces and made two dozen tiny black dots on the paper.

"All right," said Lydia without preamble. "I'm here for all the chatter and idle talk you have for me. What's the scandal of the day?"

Selina winced. "No scandal. In fact, I would like to discuss the opposite of scandal."

Lydia raised her brows consideringly and settled her lush figure into the divan beside Selina. Today her orange-red hair was caught in a low knot beneath a pert straw bonnet that Selina quite liked. For all Mrs. Hope-Wallace was a meddlesome devil, she had excellent taste in hats.

"What in the world is the opposite of scandal?" Lydia asked. "Or must I guess?"

"Marriage," said Selina. "Marriage is the opposite of scandal."

Lydia took this in but then shook her head. "Marriage might be the solution to a scandal, I'll grant you that. But I can think of a good half a dozen marriages that caused more scandal than they eliminated. And by the by, whose marriage are we talking about here?"

She gave Selina a long look through coppery lashes, and Selina felt herself start to blush. Again. Twice in two days. It was offensive.

"Not mine," she said quickly. "Definitely not mine. Lyddie, believe me, if I ever consider accepting a proposal, you'll be the first to know."

"I was wondering if I was about to be," Lydia said.

"No," said Selina. "No, certainly not."

Since 1812, when they'd both made their bows, Lydia and Selina had each turned down several offers. The majority had been in their first Season. Lydia had been disgusted. "Beaumont," she'd said, rolling her eyes. "I have danced with the man a single time. I have spoken a grand total of four words to him. Good evening. And then later: Good evening."

That first Season, every single male member of the ton with substantial debt and a total lack of interest in the personality of his future wife had proposed to Lydia. She'd rejected them all.

If Lydia could just bring herself to speak to men, Selina felt certain she'd have made an excellent match in a heartbeat. But Lydia didn't—or couldn't—and after the first two years, the proposals had slowed to a trickle.

Selina had had offers too, from fortune-hunters and men who wanted a closer connection to the dukedom and even occasionally a nice gentleman who seemed legitimately interested in her company.

But 1812 had been something of an education. It had started with ribbons.

Purple, if Selina remembered correctly. Lydia had informed her that aubergine would be à la mode in late 1812, which was why she had been holding purple ribbons when they'd discovered that Selina's suitor, the Marquess of Queensbury, was in the millinery shop not to pay his attentions to her, but to set an assignation with his mistress.

Good heavens, Selina had been such a fool then. Whyever could he have come into the shop? she'd asked. He didn't even make a purchase.

As though a marquess might come in to purchase a hat for his mother or buttons for his own coat.

She'd heard the term mistress , of course, but only at a distance. Whispered beneath discreetly cupped hands. Not as the name for real women whom real men of her acquaintance engaged for the purpose of carnal conversation.

But she'd learned quickly. First an illusion-puncturing explanation from Lydia— Your older brother has kept you sheltered from the real world, Selina —and then a book. The book. The book that Lydia had brought over to Rowland House and told Selina to keep out of sight if she had any sense.

The Courtesan's Revenge: The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Written by Herself.

Selina recalled the cheap cloth binding, the way the rough navy starched cotton had felt under her hands, so different from the smooth leather of the books in the library at Broadmayne, their country estate.

She remembered curling up beneath her counterpane, squinting in the moonlight at the words on the page.

I shall not say , the book began, why and how I became, at the age of fifteen, the mistress of the Earl of Craven .

Selina had learned quite a bit from Harriette Wilson's book. She'd learned a great deal more in the three years since 1812, and all of it came back to Belvoir's and its expansive catalog of emerald-green books.

She had also learned—between her brothers' marriages and her growing understanding of the lifestyles of male peers of the realm—that the regular kind of aristocratic marriage was not good enough for her. She had no need to marry for security or social position.

She was endlessly grateful for that privilege, because she had discovered, in her heart of hearts, that she wanted more . She wanted something better than a political and economic match based on an appropriate lineage and a desire for heirs.

She wanted love. She wanted someone who wouldn't be afraid of her connection to Belvoir's. She wanted someone to look at her and see more than just the sister of a duke or the recipient of a substantial dowry. More than difficult and prickly and too opinionated and too much .

So far, no such candidate had presented himself. It was extremely lowering.

"All right," said Lydia. "My curiosity is piqued. If we're not here to discuss your incipient marriage, whose are we planning?"

"What do you know," Selina said carefully, "about the Duke of Stanhope?"

Lydia's brows arched. "Stanhope? Why, practically everything, I think."

Selina permitted herself a snort, because it was Lydia. "Of course you do."

Lydia gave a small ironic smile. "Did you expect anything else?"

"Not in the slightest."

"His father was a third son," Lydia said, "who was sent to the colonies to marry the daughter of an absurdly wealthy French hotelier. The Stanhope coffers were not at their best at the time, but as I understand it, the marriage—and the work of the rather savvy eighth duke—shored up the Stanhope fortune well enough. Given his father, his uncles, and his two male cousins, there was no reason to think that he would ever inherit, so Mr. Peter Kent was raised in blissful American splendor in New Orleans. But thanks to Napoleon, among other misfortunes, the younger Kent men did not outlive the old duke, and so, two years ago, Peter Kent became the heir presumptive to an ancient dukedom."

"Precisely," said Selina. "The American Duke."

Lydia inclined her head. "The Earl of Clermont retrieved Kent from Louisiana when he became the heir—to meet his elderly grandfather and the rest of the ton —and he's lived a figure of some, er, notoriety ever since."

"You know that he's spoken against slavery in the Lords?"

"Of course I do," Lydia said. "He's a radical abolitionist. I'm surprised that you do."

"He was here yesterday," Selina said by way of explanation. "He wanted Nicholas's help in his efforts to secure guardianship of his half siblings."

"Intriguing. I take it they are natural children?"

Selina nodded. Goodness, she adored Lydia, who knew every thing and was shocked by nothing. "As I understand it, they're concerned that the Court of Chancery is unlikely to grant Stanhope's petition for guardianship."

Lydia took this in, and Selina knew she was mentally reviewing her knowledge of Lord John Scott, first Baron Eldon and the lord high chancellor.

"Nicholas says he's not sure what he can do to help."

Lydia huffed a laugh. "Of course he's not. Your brother is too terrifyingly honorable to curry favor with Tories he doesn't care for."

Selina nodded. That was certainly Nicholas.

"To be sure, the lord chancellor despises Stanhope, because he's American and a radical," Lydia continued. "And there's some precedent for denying guardianship to an elder brother because of inheritance concerns, not that I suspect Stanhope's father's by-blows have money or property. But it would be justification for Lord Eldon to deny Stanhope if he chooses to do so. A real tangle, Selina."

"I was thinking," Selina said, "about Lord Eldon. About his famous love match and about his reasons for disliking Stanhope. And I was wondering—well. If Stanhope were to marry—quite suddenly, and to a woman of the most upstanding reputation and perfect English background—"

Lydia's blue eyes were narrowed in thought as she gazed at Selina. One finger tapped the sprigged muslin of her skirt. "You think if Stanhope marries respectably, the lord chancellor will find him less objectionable?"

"I think if Stanhope marries respectably, he will be less objectionable. And I also think that if he marries out of impassioned ardor, perhaps Lord Eldon will find him more sympathetic. And I do wonder if Stanhope and his new bride might be able to get Lord Eldon's wife on their side as well, if their story is charming enough."

Lydia's lips curved up. "Selina. You have the mind of a politician after all. I'm impressed."

Selina gave a little shake of her head. "Don't say it. Don't even think it, or Nicholas's single Whig friends will suddenly start calling in droves."

Lydia laughed. "God save you from that fate. All right, so you mean to see Stanhope married?"

"I had intended to suggest that course of action to him, yes," Selina said. "I thought you might help me draw up a list of suitable ladies for him to court." She gestured to the dotted foolscap in front of her. "I'm prepared with pen and ink."

"Of course you are," said Lydia. "I've never seen you other than prepared. Have you any candidates in mind for the future Duchess of Stanhope?"

Selina chewed her lower lip. "It must be someone with an impeccable reputation."

"That puts the Halifax twins right out then," said Lydia.

Selina winced. The Halifax twins had made their bows the previous year and had spent the entire 1814 Season popping up on scandal sheets across London, smoking cheroots in libraries and emerging from closed carriages with gentlemen at dawn. Selina loved Margo and Matilda, but—

"Absolutely no Halifaxes," she agreed.

"An impeccable reputation," said Lydia, "and if not a daughter of a peer, then at least someone who is English to the bone. Eldon will like that."

"And someone sensible," Selina said. "Someone with enough backbone that Stanhope won't run right over her."

Lydia considered this. "Stanhope is rather…"

"Forceful?" said Selina.

"I was going to say impulsive," Lydia said. "Reckless. A bit outrageous."

Selina thought about Lu and her rapier. About his offer to kidnap his siblings. About those ridiculous curls that simply could not be natural, and…

"Yes," she said. "He is rather all that."

"He doesn't need a fortune, so that makes this a bit simpler. What do you think about Lady Georgiana Cleeve?"

Selina blinked. "Georgiana Cleeve? No. No. My goodness, Lyddie, no."

Lydia looked taken aback. "Why on earth not? She's the daughter of an earl, for all the Earl of Alverthorpe is rather unbearable. She's been widely regarded as the Diamond of this Season. She is a bit young, I suppose, but she's a perfect innocent."

Selina pictured Georgiana Cleeve's lamb-like blue eyes. The immaculate moonbeam ringlets of her hair. The clustered knot of lordlings that surrounded her at every ball.

"Lydia," she said, "Georgiana Cleeve has the brains of an eel. After it has been boiled and jellied."

Lydia pressed her lips together, smothering her amusement. "Surely that's a bit uncharitable."

"I once heard Tresidder ask her if she liked Coleridge. Georgiana told him she didn't know that particular ridge, but that she believed walking in nature to be hazardous for young women of good breeding."

Lydia's eyes widened. "I am so sorry I missed that conversation."

"Even Tresidder looked alarmed, poor man."

"All right," said Lydia. "Let's add a modicum of intelligence to the list of characteristics. What about Beatrice Villeneuve?"

"Lydia," Selina protested. "She is awful. You cannot mean to suggest her."

Lydia cocked her head. "Goodness, Selina, you didn't say ‘pleasant' was a required characteristic as well."

"I wouldn't wish a lifetime with Beatrice Villeneuve on my worst enemy." And Stanhope was far from that. She liked him. She had always liked him, even though he was terribly unsettling. "Plus there are children involved. Beatrice Villeneuve would eat Stanhope's little brother for breakfast."

"All right," Lydia said. "I give up. Clearly you've someone in mind already."

"Um," said Selina. "Well. I did have one woman."

"Who is this paragon of virtue?"

"Er. You, Lyddie."

Lydia's mouth fell open, then snapped closed with a click of her teeth. "I?"

"It's perfectly logical," Selina said quickly. "Your family is one of the most well respected in England. There's never been a hint of scandal attached to your name—"

"Only because no one has yet seen me vomit at a ball—"

Selina ignored this. "You are beautiful and clever, and you'd never let Stanhope make a fool of himself."

"Selina," Lydia groaned. "Not you too. My mother has been tormenting me for years. Even you cannot suddenly make me into a different person."

"That's the beauty of it," said Selina. "You need not charm him if he's already looking for a bride. It's a wonderful idea, and he'd be lucky to have you. And"—her voice turned wheedling—"if you were to marry Stanhope, your mother would never bother you again."

"How do you think we would get on in our marriage then," Lydia asked, "if I am unable to speak? Seems like it might make day-to-day life rather awkward."

"This is promising!" Selina said brightly. "Already thinking about your married life."

Lydia spluttered. "I—what? I meant precisely the opposite!"

"Consider it," Selina said. "Just consider it. Let me put you on the list."

"I cannot be a politician's wife. How could I host a dinner party? It wouldn't work, Selina."

"It would. You'd be the duchess. You could do whatever you liked. And truly, Lyddie—I think you would be happy in a house of your own."

"I hate this," Lydia said. "I hate you."

"You do not," said Selina. "You adore me."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "What about Iris Duggleby? If we're considering awkward wallflowers for the position."

"Stop that," said Selina. "She is not. You are not."

"There's no sense in ignoring reality," Lydia said. "What do you think about replacing me on your list with Iris?"

Iris Duggleby. Selina twirled her quill pen between her fingers. She hadn't considered Iris, but in truth she rather liked Iris for the role. Like Lydia, Iris hadn't precisely been a hit on the Marriage Mart. She was a well-known bluestocking with an abiding passion for antiquities, and she made no apparent effort to pretend interest in the social whirl.

Iris did not suffer fools. Selina recalled the expressionless stare Iris had directed toward a baron's son that first Season when he'd asked airily if she thought he should follow the Prince of Wales's example and polish his boots with champagne.

"I cannot imagine having an opinion on this matter," Iris had replied.

Selina had nearly choked on the desire to laugh.

But Iris's disinclination toward false politeness had offended some preening blockheads, and her mother's insistence on jamming Iris's generous figure into a torture device of a corset had not helped matters either. The combination of it all had led one of the crueler lordlings to nickname her Miss Puggleby in her first Season. Even her father's viscountcy hadn't been quite enough to overcome that for most of the ton 's eligible young idiots.

But Iris had survived. In fact, Selina would not have thought she knew about the nickname, so little did she seem to attend to society's taunts. But then she'd bought herself a charming little pug and started to walk the thing up and down the Serpentine, a half smile on her face.

Beneath that distracted scholar's exterior, Iris was all steel. Selina thought Iris might make an excellent ninth Duchess of Stanhope.

"I'll add her," Selina said. "But I'm not taking you off." And in between ink splotches, she jotted down Lydia's name, and then Iris's.

"How about Lady Westcott?" asked Lydia.

"Goodness, Lydia, she's old ."

"She can't be more than thirty."

"She's a widow!"

Lydia's flame-colored brows drew together. "So? Remarriage is perfectly legal."

"She has a lover ," Selina hissed.

"Is that right?" Lydia sat back, impressed. "How do you know that? Even I did not know that. She must be quite discreet."

Belvoir's. Selina knew because Lady Westcott was a member of Belvoir's, and so was her lover. And Belvoir's did seem to strike its more reckless members as quite the ideal location for a tryst, as much as the staff tried to discourage it.

But Lydia didn't know about Selina's connection to Belvoir's, and so Selina said, "I do hear things occasionally, you know. From other friends."

Lydia pursed her lips and looked skeptical, but said, "Fine, strike Lady Westcott. Too scandalous, it seems. Hannah Harvey?"

"Too sweet by half. Stanhope will trample her."

"Oh for goodness' sake. Lady Victoria Eyles-Styles?"

"You must be joking," Selina said. "Stanhope isn't a horse. He'll never attract her attention."

"You are rejecting Lady Victoria because she is too fond of horses?"

"I'm rejecting Lady Victoria because unless Stanhope rolls about in hay and dresses in nothing but leather, she won't even notice him."

Lydia blinked and said nothing.

"Like a saddle," Selina said quickly. "I meant leather like a… like a saddle. And bridle. Like what a horse wears." It just seemed to be getting worse and worse the more she spoke. Good God, Belvoir's had completely ruined her.

"Indeed," said Lydia drily. "How about Elizabeth Yardsley? Oh, or Elizabeth Swinburn? Or even Lady Elizabeth Maye?"

"No. And no, and definitely no. I reject all of the Elizabeths."

"Selina, I think you have rejected every eligible woman of the ton ."

"Not all of them," Selina protested. "I put Iris on the list."

"You know," said Lydia thoughtfully. "There is someone we haven't considered who fits all of your requirements. Clever and sensible, sterling reputation, and unparalleled English lineage."

Selina took up her pen. "I knew you would crack this for us. Who is it?"

"You."

Selina dropped the pen. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" said Lydia. "You want me to be on the list, do you not? Obviously you can't think Stanhope such a terrible prospect as a husband."

"It's not that," said Selina. She picked up the quill again and nervously flattened the feathered end.

Lydia had no idea that in 1812, Selina had convinced her brother Will to buy Belvoir's. And that since January 1813, Selina had been almost single-handedly running the most popular circulating library in London.

Lydia didn't know. Selina's dear friend Faiza did not know, and neither did her brother Nicholas.

No one but Will knew. Because behind the pristine surface of Belvoir's Library on Regent Street, where patrons could have their books bound or order volumes for their home libraries, Belvoir's provided salacious literature to any literate woman in London.

No more , she'd thought to herself as she'd built the Venus catalog. Never again would she be the sheltered fool she'd been that first Season, flabbergasted by the discovery of mistresses and bastard children.

There was such power in knowledge. She knew that now. And she meant to make that knowledge as broadly available as she could.

Selina had two rules for Belvoir's:

Anyone could purchase a membership for one guinea per year.

Only women were permitted to check out books from the Venus catalog.

There was a third rule, but it was for Selina alone: No one could ever, ever see Selina enter or leave the bookshop, and she could never have a Belvoir's book on her person.

And somehow, quite miraculously, it had worked. Selina had been running Belvoir's without a hint of scandal for well over two years now. The young women of the ton were vastly more educated in matters of the sexes than Selina had been, thanks to the combination of radical philosophy, erotic memoirs, and titillating novels that made up the Venus catalog.

She was proud of what she'd accomplished with Belvoir's. Word of mouth had brought hundreds of women to the Venus catalog; Selina had seen more and more debutantes and housemaids and even venerable matrons clustered together around green-bound Belvoir's books each passing month. When Lydia's maid had reported a sudden and complete departure of female staff from the Marquess of Queensbury's household, Selina had felt a heady combination of satisfaction and relief.

But nothing could last forever. As the knowledge of the Venus catalog spread through the beau monde , people who opposed female education were sure to discover it. Just last week, Jean Laventille had reported to Selina that he had fielded two separate inquiries into the ownership of the Belvoir's property.

When Selina's connection to Belvoir's got out—and it would get out, Selina had no doubt of it—the scandal would be cataclysmic. If Selina were ever to select a husband, he would need to be someone who could weather the scandal with equanimity.

Peter—who required a wife entirely above reproach—was not that man.

No. She could not put him at risk with her secret. She felt too much for him: his half-concealed vulnerability, his earnest desire to take care of his siblings. She wanted to help him. And exposing him to the scandal of the decade would decidedly not be helpful.

"Well," she said to Lydia, trying not to seem like she was hedging, "for one thing, I plan to deliver this list to Stanhope personally. I can't exactly present myself as one of the three most eligible women in London."

"Fair point," said Lydia. "I can tell him myself."

Selina almost wanted to agree, just to see if Lydia could manage to utter such a thing in a strange man's presence, but…

No. She could not let Lydia entertain the possibility.

"Also, I… I simply do not think of him that way. As a… potential spouse."

"Oh, please," said Lydia. "Try it. You'll manage. He's not exactly difficult to look at."

Hang the man, he most certainly was not. His eyes had been so bright and intense on hers the day before, and then there were those irritating curls that made her want to lift her fingers to his brow and…

Blast, she was losing this argument with Lydia.

What could she say? Her affections lay elsewhere? Lyddie would know that wasn't true. Perhaps she could tell Lydia that she preferred the company of women to men—but somehow she felt she'd deceived her best friends enough these past years.

"I can't," she said. "Lyddie, I can't explain it. I just… can't marry him."

Lydia sighed. "All right, fine. I trust you to know your own mind."

Well. Selina had all the moral rectitude of a ham sandwich.

"Here it is then," she said, looking with some misery back down at the sheet of foolscap. "My grand plan to save Stanhope's siblings. You and Iris Duggleby."

"And you might as well add Georgiana Cleeve," Lydia said. "Some men like women with feathers between their ears."

Yes, Selina knew that by now too.

"To be sure," she said, and she penned Georgiana's name at the bottom of the list. Way at the bottom. Far, far down at the bottom of the page. "Three candidates. One future duchess."

"Wonderful," said Lydia blandly. "Let the games begin."