Chapter 1

One

December 1823

Cassie sipped her second glass of champagne as she peered through the fronds of a potted palm. The ballroom had been a crush when she'd arrived, and yet somehow, he'd still spotted her. Mr. Hunt was here, somewhere, and if she valued her sanity, she needed to avoid him.

This ball was an unmitigated disaster. She had expected no less, since nothing good ever came of anything associated with Lady Minerva Dutton. The woman was brash, unyielding, and an incurable gossip, and no event she hosted ever concluded without at least one debutante erupting into tears. It was rather unfortunate then, when Cassie's good friend Marianna had accepted the hand of the dowager viscountess's youngest son.

"I told you not to marry him," Cassie said to a rather weepy Marianna. Her dragon of a mother-in-law had just roundly criticized her, saying she looked like an overripe tomato in her gown.

Marianna sniffled. "But Gerald is sweet. He is nothing like his mother."

Her husband might not have been conniving or cruel, but he was terribly dull. Which Cassie thought might be worse.

"If you say so," she replied, her gaze still scouring the crowd.

"You're looking for Mr. Hunt, aren't you?"

"I am not looking for him, I am watching for him. There is a difference."

Had she known that Mr. Horace Hunt would be in attendance and would descend like a hawk upon her arrival, she would have given her regrets. She hadn't wished to attend the ball in the first place. But Marianna's increasingly desperate pleas had swayed her. The poor girl was terrified of her mother-in-law. So was Gerald, leaving them both little more than quivery lumps of nerves whenever forced to be in the dowager viscountess's company. What Cassie's presence could do to shield them was not entirely clear; Marianna had clung to her arm all evening, and Lady Dutton had still closed in for a smattering of verbal cuts. Gerald, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found.

What a hero.

"Mr. Hunt isn't so bad," Marianna said, joining Cassie in her perusal of the evening's guests through the green fronds. It seemed all of London was here. "He reminds me of a river otter."

Cassie lowered her champagne. "How is that not so bad?"

"River otters are adorable little creatures!"

Cassie sighed and finished the last of her champagne. Her older brother, Michael, the Duke of Fournier, had introduced her to Mr. Hunt the previous week while strolling through Hyde Park. Michael had arrived at his former Grosvenor Square home, which Cassie now occupied, and suggested a brisk walk. She'd been suspicious and had considered giving an excuse that she was on her way out. However, Michael might have asked her destination, and she wasn't prepared with a good lie.

She certainly could not tell him the truth.

So, she'd gone for the stroll, and there Mr. Hunt had been, waiting by the steely gray Serpentine. The two men had pretended surprise at running into one another, but Michael was a horrible actor, and Mr. Hunt even more atrocious. Her brother had not yet given up in his quest to find her a suitable husband, and it seemed every time she requested that he stop, he lost the ability to hear. Tonight, Mr. Hunt had swept up to her and declared his intention to have her first dance of the evening. Her swift fib that she was not dancing due to a twisted ankle had not deterred him. Instead, he'd asked for the honor of fetching her some punch. When he'd gone for the refreshments table, Cassie slipped away. She'd been avoiding him ever since.

Marianna clutched her arm. "Don't turn your head, but there is a man who keeps looking at you."

"If it is Mr. Hunt, I am climbing into this plant and living there forever. Send my belongings."

"No, no, it's not him. This man is different. He's handsome. Quite handsome," she said a little too breathily. "It is one of Lord Lindstrom's sons if I'm not mistaken."

Cassie's spine went rigid. "Which one?"

"I have no idea. They all look alike."

Slowly, Cassie glimpsed over her shoulder and through the palm fronds. The man Marianna had noticed stood a good head taller than the other men in the ballroom. His broad shoulders filled out the black superfine of his jacket with irritating precision when compared to the artful looseness of his cravat. Thick midnight black hair fell forward over his brow, reaching toward pale green eyes that had already spied her behind the potted palm. He formed a sly grin and tipped his drink to her in acknowledgement.

She immediately turned her back. "Blast."

"Do you know the gentleman?" Marianna asked, still staring at him in open admiration.

"Unfortunately. It is the Marquess of Lindstrom's fourth son, Lord Grant Thornton."

It had been nearly two years since she'd last seen him, and as always, there had been friction between them. They'd been at Lord and Lady Neatham's home on Berkeley Square during the birth of Hugh and Audrey's first child. Lord Thornton had been there to support his closest friend, and as Audrey's former sister-in-law, Cassie had been there too. Seeing Audrey and Hugh hold their little girl for the first time had brought tears to her eyes. However, it wasn't until she'd slipped away into the small morning room that she'd allowed the veil of joy to drop, and the sobs to take over. After a few ugly wails, drawn up as if from the pit of her soul, a throat had cleared.

"If those are tears of happiness, I do not want to imagine what your tears of sorrow must sound like."

Grant Thornton had already been seated in the morning room when she'd entered, the tall backing of the chair obscuring him completely. Cassie had quickly dried her cheeks, wiped her nose, and chastised him for not announcing himself, as any gentleman should.

"And no lady should sound like a bleating goat when they cry," he replied. "What are these tears for anyhow? A baby has been born. It's an exultant occasion, or so I'm told."

It was an exultant occasion, and that was why Cassie had waited until she was alone—or at least believed herself to be—before she'd let her tears fall. She wondered whether she would ever see a newborn baby and not feel stabbing heartache first and foremost.

"My tears are none of your concern," she'd said before storming from the room. "And I do not sound like a goat!"

Now, here Lord Thornton was again. He looked much the same. Just as devilish and just as unimpressed with his surroundings. What was he doing at Lady Dutton's ball? This was a society event, and it was well known that the fourth son of the Marquess of Lindstrom, and the physician to several ton peers, did not go out in society. He was a flirt, a libertine, and, as Cassie had learned from personal experience, so arrogantly confident that he made her back teeth ache.

There had been a time—a very short time—when she'd harbored an attraction to him. But that had been before they'd been thrown together during a few of Audrey and Hugh's investigations. Being in close proximity to him had easily cured her of her affliction.

Cassie refrained from looking behind her again, and after several minutes in which Lord Thornton did not approach, she breathed easier.

"There you two are. I should have known I'd find you crouched behind foliage." Mrs. Jane Riverton grabbed Cassie's arm and tugged her out from behind the shrubbery. She arched a brow. "You're hiding from that man. The one that looks a bit like a beaver."

She rolled her arm free. "I'm starting to feel sorry for Mr. Hunt."

"Oh, yes, a beaver is a much better comparison than a river otter," Marianna said.

"Why are you hiding from him? He isn't so awful. You must admit, he has a better chin than Gerald."

Marianna glared at the insult to her husband. Jane had always said anything she liked without thought for whether it was nice. But ever since she'd married the wealthy and distinguished Mr. John Riverton, she'd gone from mildly pretentious to overtly superior.

"Looks aren't everything," Jane went on. "Ask Marianna, she'll tell you. Besides, I've heard Mr. Hunt is quite rich."

Marianna sharpened her glare while Cassie reached for another glass of champagne on a passing tray.

"So am I," she murmured before taking a long sip that tickled her nose.

"Not until you are married," Jane said with a roll of her eyes.

Cassie grimaced. She'd reached her majority two years ago, when she'd turned twenty-one, but her brother the duke had staunchly refused to give her the annual income it provided. Three thousand pounds per year was far too large a sum for a single woman to manage, he insisted, and it would also make her a target for any immoral, money-hungry cad looking to charm and use her. Her brother would not be swayed, and so, after many arguments and some artful calculation, Cassie had struck a compromise. She would agree to take the much smaller annual sum without complaint—if she could live independently from Michael and his wife, Genie.

It wasn't that she disliked them, though her brother got under her skin like no one else. But Cassie needed privacy. She needed room to breathe. Michael had agreed, albeit with extreme reluctance. She now lived alone at his former Grosvenor Square residence with a small staff, but he had continued to work tirelessly to see her married off. Case in point: Mr. Hunt.

"Darling, at three and twenty, you don't have much time left," Jane said. "The pool of peers is rapidly thinning."

"So is Mr. Hunt's hair," Cassie replied, but then felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn't his appearance she objected to. It was his sex. She wanted nothing to do with men in general, and she was quite certain they would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth of her past. She'd trusted a man once, and he'd played her for a fool. He'd broken her in so many ways, and she'd not yet discovered how to repair all the pieces.

"I called on you yesterday," Jane said to her above the fast tempo of a pianoforte. Several couples were dancing a quadrille. "Your footman said you were out."

Cassie sipped a little more champagne than she meant to and coughed. "Yes, I was shopping." The lie was one of about five that she held in reserve for whenever an acquaintance couldn't find her at her home. I was at the circulating library and I was on a stroll through the park and I had a megrim were some of the others that were vague but believable, and also difficult to challenge, should one try.

Over the past year, she'd needed to come up with a host of excuses for her absences, as telling anyone the truth—that she was, in fact, running a charity home in a poor part of London for pregnant, unwed women—was out of the question. If Michael ever learned what she was doing with her paltry income, he would have an apoplexy. And he would immediately stopper the flow of her pittance. As the legal trustee of her inheritance, he would have the utmost authority to do so.

Jane leveled her with a skeptical look. "That is the third time I've called on you in as many weeks to find you not at home."

"Send a note ahead next time," Cassie said with a blasé shrug.

Avoiding explanation and elaborate apologies had worked well thus far, so she saw no reason to change her tactics now, even if it did inspire a scowl from her friend.

Cassie spent as much time at Hope House as she possibly could, but even still, it never felt like enough. Whenever she was there, a sense of purpose filled her to the brim, and whenever she left to return to her life in Mayfair, she felt a pinch of guilt. The girls and young women who found their way to Hope House would never know the safety and comfort of a large home, a full staff, or a plentiful income. They were mostly poor or working class, though a few middle-class girls had shown up inside the false front of their establishment on Crispin Street in Spitalfields. A bell above the main door was rigged to set off another bell inside the back of the house whenever someone entered, and it was Cassie's job whenever she was there to greet whoever had wandered into the accounting offices of Mr. Hiram James Sons. Most of the time she would find a gentleman, or some servant sent out by their employer, and she would see them out, explaining that their client list was too full to take on anyone new. But sometimes, she would find a frightened or nervous young woman who would say, "I'm here for a meeting with my friend, Miss Hope." Audrey would welcome her to come out back, where Hope House operated in earnest.

Marianna clutched Cassie's arm again, as she had when she'd seen Grant Thornton staring at her. "Oh, good heavens. He is coming over."

Her heartbeat doubled. "Who, Lord Thornton?"

"No, Mr. Hunt."

Drat! Cassie dumped the remainder of her champagne, along with the empty glass, into the potted palm. "I'll be back shortly," she said to the two women and then darted away, behind a few throngs of guests, toward the ballroom exit.

"Coward," she heard Jane say as she went. Perhaps she was. But she'd rather drown herself in a bowl of punch than endure a bland and meaningless conversation with one of Michael's potential suitors. Eventually, Mr. Hunt would take the hint and give up, just as all the others had done. There was no need to draw things out.

Cassie reached the ballroom doors and entered Lady Dutton's entrance hall. It wasn't the first time she'd been to the dowager's home, but she'd never been beyond the ground floor and main ballroom. A few ladies were coming down the stairs, no doubt returning from the withdrawing room. There, they could have their maids refresh their hair or mend a torn stocking or use the bourdaloue behind a privacy screen. A glance over her shoulder showed Mr. Hunt craning his neck above the sea of guests. His eyes found her. With a jolt, she raced for the stairs.

Cassie reached the first level just as Mr. Hunt exited the ballroom. She turned left, down a darkened hall rather than the well-lit one to the right. This hall, she hoped, would lead to a servant's staircase that would take her back down to the ground floor and ultimately, to the ballroom. Once there, she could say her goodbyes to Marianna and Jane and then have a footman call for her carriage.

However, she reached the end of the darkened hall and let out a groan. No stairwell. No withdrawing room. Just several closed doors. She'd have to go back the way she came.

She turned—and went still. Mr. Hunt had reached the top of the stairs. He glanced left, then right, and hesitated on which direction to take. Panicked, Cassie grabbed the glass knob on the door closest to her and twisted. She hurried into a room and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, her heart thrashing. She exhaled, though her anger began to simmer. How dare he follow her upstairs? Surely, he knew how improper it was. Unless…he wished to corner her. Entrap her and force a wedding. She did, after all, possess a substantial dowry. The income from it would be enough for any gentleman of the peerage to live quite well on.

She pressed her ear to the door and listened. No footsteps came. Only the clearing of a throat behind her.

"This is me announcing myself, as I have been told a gentleman should."

The deep voice raked over her back, setting her scalp to tingling. Cassie turned, and her stomach dropped at the sight of Lord Thornton, seated in a chair. A woman stood in front of him, her foot propped on his thigh, the hem of her gown lifted to her knee.

Lord Thornton smirked. "Aren't ladies taught to knock first before barging in?"