Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

“He killed them—that is what I heard,” Fanny Swinton, the Marchioness of Tillington, declared in a low, anxious whisper. “A murderer, and your father would bring him into our house and make us dine with the—I cannot even bring myself to finish the sentence, it is too awful!” With shaky hands, she did her best to sip from the cup of tea that had been brought into the Rose Room: a quaint, secondary drawing room that overlooked the beautiful rose gardens of Tillington House.

Joanna Swinton, who stood by the windows, craning her neck to get a half-decent view of the main gates, whipped around in alarm. “A murderer?” She choked on her own breath. “I know Papa’s circle of acquaintances is almost entirely formed of scoundrels and degenerates, but he has a few moral boundaries. He would not make us welcome a killer, much less one who had killed his own family. That cannot be true. Where have you heard such a thing? Have you been reading the scandal sheets again?”

“I wish I had,” her mother replied, the teacup rattling against the saucer as she drew in an unsteady breath, clearly struggling to calm herself. “And you must not say such rude things about your father’s acquaintances. He might hear you.”

Joanna mustered a smile and went to perch upon the armrest of her mother’s chair. “He would only scold me, and I have gained a rather useful sort of deafness when it comes to his chiding of me. The moment his voice rises above a certain volume, I cease to hear a word.” She slipped her arm around her mother’s narrow, hunched shoulders and rested her chin upon her mother’s fragrant, silky-soft gray hair. “But do tell me, where have you heard of this unsettling information? Do you really believe it to be true?”

“The moment rumors spread that this reprehensible duke had been seen speaking with your father in London, I was inundated with letters!” her mother explained in the same, hushed voice she always used, even when there was no secret to be told. “I have never received so many, nor have so many ladies wished to call upon me for tea. Of course, your father thought they were silly letters of no importance; if he had read a single one, he would have intercepted every ensuing message that came to me.”

Joanna’s heart slowed to a thud of dread. “You were warned about this man?”

“More than warned, darling. I know more of this duke than I ever desired to, not that your father was inclined to listen,” her mother replied, taking another nervous sip of her tea. “A daft old coot, he called me. I suppose I should not be surprised after thirty years of marriage.”

A muscle twitched in Joanna’s jaw as she clenched her teeth, infuriated on her mother’s behalf. “You are neither daft, nor old, nor a coot,” she soothed, kissing her mother’s hair. “You are a swan: elegant and refined and beautiful, maintaining an air of serenity while you—”

“Kick my legs furiously beneath the water,” her mother finished the sentence with a cheery smile, for it was a sweet jest that Joanna often used, though that did not make it any less true. To Joanna, her mother was a swan, and she would repeat that jest again and again if it could keep bringing a smile to the older woman’s face.

“Should I stretch my legs in preparation for some kicking, for when this terrible wretch arrives? I could trip him accidentally or spill something that will stain his shirt or simply kick him in the shins so that he will be so furious with us that he will turn on his heel and leave without ever desiring to return,” Joanna offered, meaning every word.

Her mother shook her head. “I can see no means for us to escape this dinner. Your father has made up his mind and sees nothing amiss with the fellow.”

“But what, exactly, have you been told of this duke?” Joanna steered the conversation back to the beginning, her stomach churning as she tried to make her tone as casual as possible. One of them had to have their wits about them this coming evening, if it truly could not be avoided.

Her mother looked at the Rose Room door, her throat bobbing as she swallowed loudly. Joanna’s father, the Marquess of Tillington, was tending to some business in his study. As such, the Marchioness needed to be quick if she was going to speak of any revelations before he came back—or, worse, if the duke arrived early.

“There were mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of his father and brother,” Joanna’s mother said furtively, picking up a jam tart to nibble on for comfort. “Indeed, it has been said that he was born wrong—a cursed child that took his mother’s life when he came into the world.”

Joanna pursed her lips. “I hardly think a baby can be blamed for the death of its mother, Mama. Born without a stitch of clothing, where would it hide a weapon?” She had hoped to bring some levity to the conversation, but her mother ignored the latter part.

“Nor do I, but you do encounter some unnatural individuals in this world, and you do have to wonder if they were born that way,” her mother continued, dropping crumbs onto her skirts, which were creased from a morning’s worth of anxious wringing. “The duke’s father was, by all accounts, also a somewhat twisted creature. A friend of a friend once had notions of courting him and was so terrified after a single encounter that she begged her father to send her to stay with her aunt for the rest of that season.”

Joanna tilted her head from side to side. “A sins-of-the-father sort of situation?”

“Perhaps,” her mother nodded. “The duke’s father died in a riding accident, in which the duke—though he was just the youngest son, then—was the only witness. A year later, the duke’s elder brother drowned in the river that runs alongside the Bruxton Estate. Again, the duke was the only witness to the incident, and he has hidden himself away for a decade since.”

Joanna’s eyes widened as a shudder ran through her. “You think he murdered his father and brother in order to gain the dukedom?”

“I do not think it, but my acquaintances have informed me that he has a despicable reputation, terrorizing his staff, punishing his tenants in cruel and unusual ways, as well as being beastly to behold. As deformed as his character, or so I have heard. Would a monster like that not—”

“What are you two gossiping about?” a voice asked, as a figure slipped in through the garden doors.

Pretty and fair as a dove, Nancy Swinton was the jewel in the crown of the Swinton family. At 19, she was the younger of the two sisters, with golden blonde hair that fell past her waist when it was allowed free of hair slides and pins, and hazel green eyes that were the color of the sun shining through early autumn leaves. Where she was everything graceful and pure and soft, Joanna was dark and ungainly and sharp: two opposite birds who could not have adored one another more.

“Just lamenting the thought of dinner with one of Father’s strange acquaintances,” Joanna replied casually. Talk of murder and conspiracy and cruelty was not appropriate for Nancy’s innocent ears.

Nancy gasped, clasping a hand to her chest. “You should not speak so rudely of Papa’s friends.”

“I will when they stare at me as if I am a piece of prime beef,” Joanna smiled, keeping her tone light so her sister would not suspect anything. “And when they stare at you in the same fashion.”

Nancy shrugged. “That fellow, Lord Albert, was rather pleasant.”

“Not if you picked up the scandal sheets recently,” Joanna remarked, grimacing. “A wretch, like his father.”

Nancy pulled a disapproving face. “The scandal sheets are filled with lies, as you well know. Maybe, I ought to lend you my books, so you might become as wise as me in the art of optimism and pursuit of truth in place of judgment.”

“Goodness, no.” Joanna feigned a dramatic shudder. “If I wish to read of stirring love stories, I shall pore over the great works of Greek mythology and Roman legend. These modern tales inspire nothing within me, other than an urge to roll my eyes and skim to the end.”

For where Nancy had a heart that brimmed with the hope of soaring romance, Joanna had a more sensible approach to love and marriage: namely, that it would not happen for her, so what was the use in dreaming of it? At four-and-twenty, she was well on her way to perpetual spinsterhood, and with each passing year, she found that prospect more and more comforting, throwing herself into other passions: painting, writing, horse-riding, and her determined pursuit of becoming England’s finest virtuosa of the pianoforte.

Just then, the Rose Room door swung open and Nicholas Swinton, the Marquess of Tillington, marched in with trudging footfalls. He narrowed his hazel eyes at the three women, puckering his lips in disapproval, for though he could not have heard what they had been speaking about, even Joanna knew that they looked suspicious, all leaning in.

“Should you not be preparing for dinner? I do not consider any one of you suitably attired for dinner with the Duke of Bruxton,” Nicholas said, crinkling his nose. “This is no ordinary guest.”

“So I hear,” Joanna replied, deliberately baiting him. “Please, tell us, how are we supposed to dress to welcome such an infamous gentleman?”

But much like Joanna’s ability to ignore her father when he scolded her, he had also developed an immunity to her wit. Usually, he pretended he had not heard it at all. So, it was something of a surprise when he responded, his tone laced with a warning note.

“Gossip is the pastime of ladies who have nothing better to occupy their dull and tedious lives, and I will not accept the ladies of my own family giving credence to any such gossip,” he said coolly, adjusting his own cravat. “I shall judge the man when I meet him, not before, and I certainly shall not heed the whisperings of bored women.”

Joanna arched a curious eyebrow. “So, you know of the rumors?”

“I know that rumors are rarely grounded in truth,” he shot back. “Indeed, my acquaintances at the club have spoken rather highly of him.”

Your acquaintances who are just as awful and infamous, in their own fashion. Joanna did not say so out loud, choosing to get to her feet as she said, instead, “But you have not met him? I thought you were seen engaging in conversation with him, in London. Indeed, I was under the impression you were great friends.”

“I spoke with his manservant,” her father replied. “Not that my conversations are any business of yours.” His gaze drifted toward his wife, eyes glinting with accusation, and Joanna’s heart sank as she watched her mother drop her chin to her chest. Chastened, as always.

And I was the one who got you into trouble… Not for the first time in her life, Joanna wished she was better able to hold her tongue when it mattered. But she could not worry over that for long, as a sound filtered into the thick silence of the Rose Room: a secondary thud of footsteps, approaching swiftly.

The door swung open, and an unfamiliar gentleman strode inside as if he owned the manor.

“It is my pleasure to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Bruxton,” Joanna’s father fumbled to announce, apparently just as surprised by the fellow’s abrupt entrance.

The gentleman barely bowed, giving the slightest downward dip of his chin as he surveyed the three ladies who stared back at him. Out of the corner of her eye, Joanna saw her sister’s mouth agape, while their mother had blanched, though Joanna could not imagine the expression on her own face. Shock, most likely, for the duke was not as expected.

Indeed, if the duke was a monster, he was cleverly disguised, for he was quite the most handsome man Joanna had ever seen, and he was staring right at her. Or glaring. She could not decide.