Chapter One

25 Curzon Street, Mayfair

London, England

February 15, 1817

"W elcome home, my lady, and Mrs. Pritchett," Jenkins, the butler, said as Lizzie and Lady Beadle entered the foyer. "Your correspondence is in the large silver salver, with a missive from Lady Armstrong on top."

"What's that, Jenkins?" Lady Millicent Beadle held her ear trumpet to her ear.

"Your correspondence, my lady, is in the silver salver," he repeated in a loud voice. "Lady Armstrong's invitation is on top of the pile."

Lady Beadle nodded. "Take this blasted horn, dear Lizzie."

Lizzie hid a smile as the viscountess handed her the conical brass hearing device, while the butler assisted her employer with her hat and pelisse.

"Thank you, Jenkins. I'll attend to the post tomorrow. However, I'll read Lady Armstrong's now." Lady Beadle beamed as Jenkins handed her the invitation. "This is exactly what I've been waiting for, Lizzie!" she said, waving the vellum envelope in the air. "My niece and her husband always throw the most delightful parties. You will have a grand time, my dear." She turned back to the butler. "Jenkins, can you have Agnes make sure my sweet kittens are in the parlor?"

"Very good, my lady," the tall, gray-haired retainer said.

Lizzie swiftly returned the ear trumpet to Lady Beadle as Jenkins took her pelisse and hat and hung them in the vestibule next to the older woman's. She hoped Lady Beadle would allow her to stay home. She had no desire to go to a ball. Especially after the many social engagements they had attended in Bath. She wasn't used to being so much in Society. Certainly not after living in America for five years, more than half that time on her own.

"How was your visit with your cousin, my lady?" Jenkins asked.

"A thoroughly lively sojourn, Jenkins. Didn't we have a wonderful time, Lizzie?"

"Indeed, I thought it was most enjoyable and quite edifying," Lizzie replied. "Lady Massey seemed in good spirits throughout our stay."

Lady Beadle harrumphed. "She dragged us to every milliner, mantua maker, assembly room, and all the other sites Bath has to offer in the six weeks we were there. Not even the wet weather slowed her down." She rolled her eyes. "I love my dear cousin, but she's been claiming to be at death's door for nearly twenty years. Honestly, she missed her calling as a Drury Lane sensation."

Lizzie's lips twitched as she and the viscountess made their way upstairs to the parlor. "She seems to derive a great deal of joy from her grandchildren."

"Yes, yes. She adores them, and I'm happy for dear Althea." Lady Beadle waved the envelope at the butler. "Jenkins, have Rosalee bring a tea tray to the parlor. I'm positively parched."

"Very good, my lady," he said, with a slight bow and a wink at Lizzie before he turned and left them.

"It's nice to relax, finally." The older woman heaved a deep sigh as she settled back against the gold and white striped settee. "Yoo-hoo! Come here, my darlings," Lady Beadle called out.

As if on cue, three cats emerged from three separate corners of the parlor.

"Ah, there you are, my pretties," the dowager said, as a long-haired brown-and-white cat leaped up on the settee beside her. "Athena, my sweet. Have you been napping in here all day, or did you just sneak down from Lizzie's room?" she asked, petting the now-purring cat. "Have I mentioned, dear Lizzie, that I named my pets after my favorite mythological gods?"

"Yes, my lady. And they are perfectly named." Lizzie had lost count of the number of times Lady Beadle had told her about the cats' names, and she had replied in the same way each time. Lady Beadle was a sharp lady, and Lizzie often wondered if the old woman repeated herself on purpose just to see what she would say.

Lizzie suppressed a chuckle. In truth, she had never owned a pet and adored the trio of cats. Athena often slept at the foot of her bed. Lizzie usually left her chamber door open during the day, allowing the cat to come and go as she pleased. Athena's favored perch was the windowpane, where she watched the birds. The twitching motions she made with her nose and the low growling sounds left no doubt that, given the opportunity, Athena would succumb to her natural feline inclinations.

Lady Beadle patted the cushion on her other side. A big orange-and-white cat leaped onto it and plopped his head on her lap, next to Athena. "Zeus, dear, you seem to have put on some weight in the past six weeks," she said. Zeus lifted his head lazily and meowed as if in protest. "We shall have to curb your treats." She wiggled her fingers at the third cat, a lovely black-and-white tabby sitting alert on the carpet, patiently waiting her turn for her mistress's attention. "Venus, you look sated as well. Did you catch a mouse?" Turning to Lizzie, she said, "As far as I know, we have never seen a mouse in this house!"

Rosalee walked in with the tea tray and set it down on the side table next to the settee.

"Rosalee, tell Lizzie. We have never seen a mouse in this house, have we?"

The maid began to pour as she responded, "No, my lady. The cats—they do keep us mouse-free. Cook loves 'em and feeds 'em leftover kippers."

"Ah! That's why our food bill is so high," Lady Beadle said with a chuckle. "But these skilled mousers are worth a few extra kippers…"

"And rashers of bacon, my lady," Rosalee added. "Zeus loves his bacon."

"Perhaps we should reduce Zeus's rations a wee bit," Lady Beadle said. "I'm concerned that he lacks the agility of his sisters."

"He's always enjoyed his treats," Rosalee said with a smile.

"Yes, and I know you're too polite to say it, but Zeus is on the lazy side, and it's his sisters who do most of the mousing. Isn't that true, Zeus?"

"Meow," Zeus replied, lying on his back so she could rub his belly.

Lizzie giggled. "They are sweet—and all with such unique characters." The cats were cheeky, but they were adorable and affectionate. Lizzie was touched that Lady Beadle treated them as part of the family.

She smiled as Athena leaped from the settee and settled at her feet. Reaching down, she petted the purring cat. Sitting back, Lizzie picked up her cup and sipped her tea. With a relaxed sigh, she gazed around the room, eyeing it appreciatively and noting that, despite the rich color scheme, the parlor exuded warmth and comfort. Gold and white dominated the space, beginning with an Aubusson rug in white, gold, and pale blue over gleaming, pale-oak-planked floors. The settee was covered in a subtly patterned pale-blue-and-white damask fabric, and behind the settee hung a large gilt mirror. The walls boasted a rich cream color, adorned with tastefully painted scenes of Cornwall's cliffs and canvases depicting English meadows full of poppies, Queen Anne's lace, cornflowers, and other wildflowers. A tall walnut escritoire with a matching chair dominated the wall next to the doorway.

Lizzie had come to know her employer well these past six months as her companion. The widow was kind and warm-hearted despite her occasional ill humor. But from what Lizzie could tell, that was mostly because she was irritated at using an ear trumpet. As a child, the viscountess had survived a severe fever and sore throat, but it left her with hearing loss—an affliction that had grown worse over the years. By her forties, Lady Beadle had become reliant on the hearing device.

"Those beautiful grandchildren are no doubt keeping Althea going. They are all she talked about," Lady Beadle murmured, changing the subject, as she was apt to do. "Dearest Arthur and I weren't fortunate enough to have children of our own, and while I simply adore my niece and nephew, do you see me carrying on and gushing about them? Of course not!"

"Lady Althea was most enthusiastic, my lady," Lizzie said in a discreet manner, knowing how mercurial Lady Beadle could be. She reminded herself of what her mother always said— blood is thicker than water . "She was probably trying to make us comfortable, my lady."

"Nonsense! She was showing off," Lady Beadle countered.

"Hmm," Lizzie said noncommittally as she lifted the delicate cup to her lips. "Such fragrant tea, my lady, wouldn't you agree?"

"Fragrant, indeed." The older woman gave Lizzie a shrewd look as she opened the invitation. "By the by, I took the liberty of ordering you a new gown for the ball this evening."

Lizzie raised her brows in surprise. "You did, my lady?" Oh dear —she had hoped Lady Beadle would forget about the ball.

"Indeed," Lady Beadle said again, her lips twitching as though she suppressed a grin. "I'm pleased that I thought to ask Madame Soyeuse to make an additional ball gown for each of us before we left for Bath."

Lizzie set down her cup as she tried to maintain a placid demeanor. "Another new dress is too generous, my lady. My pale lavender will do just fine for a more formal affair." The older woman had already infused Lizzie's wardrobe with several brightly colored gowns, day dresses, and even nightgowns that she could never have afforded to buy on her own. Although Lizzie thought the gowns were beautiful, the shades and fabrics were far more vibrant than was acceptable for her station. After all, she was not a na?ve debutante preparing for her come-out. She was a penniless widow who had accepted her lot in life and felt extremely fortunate to have secured a position as Lady Beadle's companion.

"I'll not hear another word on the matter, my dear. The soiree is tomorrow, and you shall have a new dress. In the morning, the modiste will deliver our gowns."

A knock sounded at the door, and Jenkins stepped into the parlor. "My lady…"

"Jenkins, you will take my ear trumpet and hold it until Mrs. Pritchett here consents to wear a decent dress to my niece's party, as I have requested." Lady Beadle turned to Lizzie. "You've been here for months, my dear, and it's time to spruce up your wardrobe. Since you are attending events at my behest, the expense is mine, and the matter is closed."

"Er…yes, my lady," the retainer said, eyes wide, as he accepted the ear trumpet. "What should I do with it, madam?"

"What do you usually do with it when I don't wish to hear fustian nonsense?" Lady Beadle thumped her cane in annoyance. "When Mrs. Pritchett comes to her senses, I'll have it back."

"Lady Beadle—" Lizzie began.

"Tut, tut," the older woman interrupted with a flick of her wrist, then added in a gentler tone, "Lizzie, you are a lovely young woman. You should dress in a manner befitting your station as a lady when you attend events at my behest. As I said, the expense is mine, and the matter is closed."

"My lady," Jenkins said, "I forgot to mention that Lady Armstrong favors a reply as soon as possible."

Lady Beadle pointed to her right ear and shook her head.

The butler handed the trumpet back. Once she positioned it in her ear, Jenkins leaned down and repeated in a louder voice, "Lady Armstrong favors a reply to her invitation as soon as possible."

Lady Beadle gave a satisfied smile. "Thank you, Jenkins. I can count on at least one person in this household to do my bidding." She handed the trumpet back to the servant. "Send a footman to tell them we'll be there on time."

"Yes, my lady. Do you wish me to keep the ear trumpet?"

"Why would I want you to do that? Of course not. If you take it away, I won't be able to hear Lizzie."

Jenkins nodded, smiled at Lizzie, and handed the hearing device back to his employer.

As petulant as Lady Beadle could sometimes be, Lizzie had grown to care deeply for her and couldn't help but be tickled by the humorous antics of the household.

After living alone for several years in America on the outskirts of Boston during a war, Lizzie was thankful for her position and appreciated being back home in England in a lovely home with a kind, if somewhat stubborn, employer and her equally kind staff. But letting go of the pain of her past was proving to be more challenging than Lizzie had anticipated. And despite how much she liked Lady Beadle's niece and nephew-in-law, Lizzie felt uncomfortable attending Society soirees. "Lady Beadle—"

"Tsk, tsk! Dear, please call me Millie! It sounds like you're speaking to my mother when you call me Lady Beadle. It makes me feel old."

Lizzie swallowed. "My la—Millie. It's not that I don't appreciate your many kindnesses—but I am out of place in London Society. I am happy serving your needs as a companion, but I feel more comfortable remaining here." As an Englishwoman in the Americas, she'd gotten used to being ignored. The American-born women spurned her for being English, and the wives of the English officers snubbed her for being the daughter of a country vicar. The men, on the other hand, whether American or English, seemed politely solicitous when standing next to their wives and all-too-eagerly lascivious when those wives were on the other side of the room. Lizzie would rather spend a quiet evening reading by a cheery fire than be subjected to leering looks from men who believed widows were fair game, and cool glances from women who believed all widows were on the prowl. The wounds of the past five years had not fully healed.

"My lady, I appreciate your kindness, but I am not ready—"

"Claptrap! You are the daughter of a vicar and the widow of Lord Peter Pritchett, the son of the Earl of Newnes. You have every right to take your place in Society, something you've refused to acknowledge, despite my encouragement. I'm not suggesting you go on the hunt for a husband—but why not have a bit of enjoyment? There is nothing wrong with attending a dinner party or a soiree. You are no longer in mourning—you are a vibrant, intelligent, and charming young woman and should experience what life has to offer."

"My lady—" Lizzie tried again.

Lady Beadle interrupted once more. "I have received reliable information that the old earl…um…Lord Newnes and his wife are not in town and will not be returning for a while. But you cannot go on avoiding them forever, child."

Lizzie had no wish to see Peter's parents. They had never accepted her marriage to their son and had treated the union with disdain. Her husband, a British officer, had been certain they would come around to accepting her by the time they returned to England. But the War of 1812 lasted into 1816—longer than anyone had imagined. When her husband lost his life in Major General Robert Ross's attack on the American capital on August 24, 1814, Lizzie's world had come crashing down. Because he had been an officer of the British Navy, Peter's body was returned to his family in England. All she had received was a letter informing her of his death and that his body had been shipped home. The vessel had been a warship, and given the danger of a possible attack, they had deemed it safer if Lizzie stayed behind, according to the letter. But in truth, she had been given no option.

She had remained on the outskirts of Boston in the home she and Peter had made together. But losing her husband had left her alone and nearly destitute, with little of value she could sell for necessities, on the verge of becoming dependent on the charity of a community that had never fully welcomed her into their midst. Despondent and in mourning, she'd missed the opportunity to leave with the last of the British troops and other officers' families.

Looking back, her only brush with happiness after Peter's death had been when she had nursed back to health Edward Sinclair—a man with ties to the Crown who seemed completely comfortable in the American wilderness. He had been in pursuit of a friend's son, who had disappeared after the Battle of New Orleans. It had been a shock to see the tall, bearded man with startling blue eyes on her doorstep. Even more shocking, he was barely able to stand, his knees almost buckling. She'd helped him inside and determined he had contracted yellow fever as he asked her for help in a raspy, reedy voice. Lizzie's heart had gone out to the poor man, and she vowed to do what she could to save him.

The contagion, unknown in the British Isles, had brought him near death. As if by Providence, Lizzie had not succumbed to the fever herself. Moreover, returning Mr. Sinclair to health had given her a renewed sense of purpose. She was barely nineteen years of age when she married Peter and had never traveled beyond the village where she grew up. Then, within a matter of months, she'd married, crossed an ocean, set up house on the fringe of an American colony, and watched her new husband march into battle—and then grieved his death after less than two years of marriage.

Determined to shake off her feelings of loneliness and despair, Lizzie had regained her spirit, the same spirit that had served her well as a vicar's daughter. But that was not the only transformation she had undergone. Caring for Edward had given her renewed hope. As he began to heal from his illness, Lizzie had also begun to heal from her grief.

Edward had had more than enough coin to provide for his stay, and Lizzie had acquired the necessary supplies to feed and nurse him back to health. During those weeks, which seemed like months, she had experienced a sense of happiness she had not felt since those early days of her marriage before everything changed. Even though she'd known Edward would have to leave eventually, her heart ached when he departed to resume his search for his friend's son.

She remembered so clearly that last day. Barely healed and still gaunt and haggard, with that long, shaggy hair and beard, he had held her hands and thanked her for everything she'd done for him. Telling her he had to continue his search for his friend, he placed a purse full of coins in her hand, enough money to see her through several months. At first, Lizzie refused, but Edward had insisted, telling her he owed her far more for saving his life. He said he would do his best to send word to her. She'd gazed into those striking blue eyes and hoped and prayed with all her heart that he would keep his promise and come back to her.

Weeks turned into months, and Lizzie despaired that she would never hear from Edward again. She knew all too well how harsh life could be in America, especially when one ventured into the wilderness. Lizzie had no way of reaching Edward and did not know where he could be. Despite her blossoming feelings for the British agent, she could wait no longer. She'd shed too many tears for her husband, and then she wept for what might have been with Edward. She had no one and nothing to keep her in America.

Michael was the only family she had left, and she didn't know where he was. It had been five years since she had seen her brother, but she thought she would feel it if he had died, and she sensed he had somehow survived the war.

The funds Edward had left her eventually ran out, so she'd sold the last thing she had of value—the gold band that Peter had given her when they married—and booked passage on a ship bound for England. She'd start there to find her brother.

Upon her arriving in England, Lizzie's first stop was the Admiralty and Marine Affairs Office, to inquire about Michael. She'd learned he had joined Wellington's transition team in Paris. But they would tell her nothing more. Except for a brief letter from Michael, which they had doubtless read—a letter she had read so many times, it was committed to memory.

Dearest Lizzie,

Thank you for alerting me of your return—something that warms my heart immensely. I have missed seeing you these many years, dearest sister, and was not surprised you knew to send your missive to the admiralty's office.

I had hoped to be here to greet you but have been called away on orders. I will do my best to write and send letters to you here.

Some very dear friends—Viscount Armstrong and his wife—have asked that you stay with them. You will be safe, and I promise to find you as soon as I return.

The address is Grantham Place, Mayfair. Lady Celia Armstrong and her husband are looking forward to having you as their guest. However, if you are insistent on finding a position, she may know of one.

I look forward to seeing you as soon as possible.

Your loving brother,

Michael

I will be here when Michael returns.

"Well, my dear Lizzie, what say you?"

Lizzie shook off her melancholy memories and breathed a deep sigh. She had been lucky indeed that the very day she'd visited Lord and Lady Armstrong, they informed her of a position as a companion. "Lady Beadle, I don't wish to sound ungrateful…"

"Then I suggest you do not, Mrs. Pritchett. In the end, I will have my way," Lady Beadle said teasingly before clearing her throat. "Madame Soyeuse will deliver a new dress tomorrow. We must look our best."

Wily woman! Lizzie noticed Lady Beadle had not used the ear trumpet to listen to her last comment, and yet she had answered. Lizzie had begun to wonder if Lady Beadle could read lips, considering the older woman recently related that she had volunteered at London's Braden School for the Deaf as a young bride. She and her husband had been silent patrons and helped fund the construction of the school and had been actively involved in the institution for many years.

Biting back a smirk, Lizzie held up her hands in mock surrender. "Fine. I will accept the new dress. But you must allow me to make future decisions on any more gowns."

The viscountess beamed and clapped her hands. "Excellent. We have a glorious event to attend, and my niece is expecting our attendance. I've been hoping my nephew would come, but I have gotten no updates from him. He hasn't been to see me in an age—not since near the end of that unfortunate dustup with the colonies. I do adore him, though." Mumbling to herself about the last time she saw him, she munched a sandwich.

Summoning up her courage, Lizzie cleared her throat. "I realize the timing of your niece's ball did not give us adequate time for me to provide my input on the gown, but in the future, I would prefer some choice in the colors and fabric for my clothing." She held her breath, unsure of her employer's reaction. But Lizzie was determined that she would have some say over what she wore and not be treated like a child. Her preference would be for a more sedate wardrobe, befitting her position in the household.

The older woman sniffed. "Of course, my dear, as long as they are not too dreary. It would be a shame, given your beautiful coloring."

I knew it. Lady Beadle would have her way. Lizzie bit down on her lip to contain a retort. There's no use. She means well and is the first person to care about me in years. She sighed. "Millie, if you don't mind, I will return shortly. I'd like to freshen up."

"Of course! Take your time, dear. We have a very busy day tomorrow."

Lizzie closed the door and leaned against it, staring wordlessly at her apartment. The room was the same size as the small, rented cottage where she and Peter had lived in America.

What am I doing fretting about gowns? It's a complete waste of time. Walking to her bed, she kicked off her shoes and lay down, staring at the blue-and-white lace canopy that matched perfectly with the walls, painted in a soft blue. There was little doubt that Lady Beadle's insistence on suitable gowns would result in nothing Lizzie wanted. So what? Lady Beadle had been the soul of kindness, and Lizzie had much to be grateful for. What was one dress in the grand scheme of life? If she were honest with herself, it was Michael that troubled her. Not knowing where he was or when he was coming home. He was the only family she had left.

But her brother wasn't the only person she missed.

When she closed her eyes, her mind went where it often had since the day she said goodbye to him— Edward Sinclair. Those incredible blue eyes still haunted her dreams. And yet she had no way of knowing if he were alive or dead.

Rolling over, she groaned into her pillow. After those many weeks of nursing him back to health, she'd found herself smiling again. When he announced he was leaving, she had asked him to stay a few more days and even offered to cut his beard. He was barely out of danger, and she worried about him relapsing. He said he would be fine. But she had no way of knowing that.

"No, it's better to keep the beard where I am going," he had said.

She'd touched his cheek and said, "I will miss you."

Lizzie opened her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away. It all felt strange. She had grieved the loss of Peter, her husband. So why did she keep thinking about Edward? She couldn't understand why the man occupied her thoughts so much—they had shared no declarations about a future together, and yet her vivid dreams had conjured up his handsome face and broad shoulders too many nights to count, and she'd wake up almost feeling his very presence. She had felt the flutter of something between them, something rare and wonderful, but she had held back, afraid to give words to her blossoming feelings, afraid to encourage someone who might break her heart.

Since she had been back in England, she realized that seeing couples flirting and strolling arm in arm or on carriage rides only reminded her of what she'd lost. That, with the tragic loss of Peter, left her afraid to relive that kind of all-consuming grief. She would not— could not —risk her heart again.

Despite those haunting yearnings of her heart, when six months went by with no word from Edward, Lizzie had decided she needed to pursue her life as if he had never been a part of it. Besides, wherever he was, he had most likely forgotten about her.