Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

ANNE

August 28th, 1818

I t was five minutes past midnight when the second note of the evening was slipped underneath my bedchamber door at Birch House. It opened on the floor like a venus flytrap, just inches away from my discarded boots.

“What on earth? ” I muttered, jolting up straight on my bed. Had someone seen light coming from my room? I should have blown out my candle. I stared at the door, half-expecting the handle to jostle as the shadows of two feet finally dispersed down the corridor. I exhaled a slow breath, pressing one hand to my chest.

The first note had come less than an hour before, preventing my sleep due to its strange nature. I had known my hostess was a bit…peculiar, but I hadn’t expected the first night of her house party to consist of such odd invitations.

The first note still rested on the table beside my bed, and its contents had been playing through my mind since I had first opened it.

Dear Lady Daventry,

You have been selected from amongst my guests to participate in this evening’s secret parlor game. Please meet in the parlor at midnight for a night of frivolity you shall never forget. Be sure to bring your wit, imagination, and daring nature. I look forward to your attendance.

Your hostess,

Lady Tottenham

I clutched the sides of my nightdress and crept toward to the new letter on the floor. I swiped it up. The smudged ink was still damp. How could I sleep at all for the next week in this house if I was to expect mysterious letters under my door every hour?

Lady Daventry,

I must insist upon your attendance. Please make haste. We wait upon your arrival in the parlor.

Lady T

I cast my gaze upward with a sigh, glaring at the plasterwork on the ceiling. It would seem there was no escaping this ‘game’ without disrespecting my hostess. My mind raced with what ‘secret parlor game’ could entail. I would put nothing past Lady Tottenham and her love of theatrics.

And breaking rules.

I was a widow just as she was, but she seemed to think that her widowhood came with permission to ignore all the regulations of polite society. She was nearing the age of sixty, and she had no desire to marry again. She attracted friends from all over Town with her extravagant parties and peculiar soirees. The first day I met Lady Tottenham at a ball in Town, she invited me to a dinner party at which she served a dessert topped with dried crickets. She thrived on shocking people.

I suspected she liked me so much because I was easily shocked.

She had money, a title, and connections—and she was fearless about losing the latter. She had once told me that all she required to be happy were her gowns, her elaborate meals, and the memories of her late husband.

That was, perhaps, where we differed the most. She loved her late husband. I would eat a pile of dried crickets if it meant I could forget mine.

The invitation to Lady Tottenham’s house party had come at the most opportune time. I had accepted it with one purpose: a place to live in London for the next twenty days. With my finances depleting steadily, I depended on her hospitality. I had received another letter a month before, and it had become all I breathed for. I read it daily. The memorized words lived inside my mind.

Dearest Anne,

I am not certain this letter will reach you before I return from India, but it is my hope that you receive it well. The months have been long without you. My time abroad has given me time to reflect on my future, and the dream I have of spending it with you. Forgive me if I am too bold in declaring my intentions in a letter after all these years, but I couldn’t bear to wait another moment. All that I have done has been for you, for that dream, to secure a financial state that might make your life comfortable.

When I learned that you were widowed, I already had plans to go to India. I was afraid my feelings might not have been returned. Now that I am here, I regret my decision to leave. I am coming back to London. I plan to arrive no later than the middle of September of this year in the hopes that we might soon marry. I hope to find you there.

With all of my heart,

Miles

The letter had been delivered to the dower house of my late husband’s estate where I had spent the last year watching helplessly as the baron’s land suffered. The letter summarized my dreams. Miles, the only man I had ever loved, was returning to London after two years, and he wanted to marry me. The thought still flooded my heart with giddiness. He was my only source of hope. In a few short weeks, we would be reunited. Lady Tottenham’s house party had seemed the perfect distraction and place of financial respite, though her strange notes were making me question my decision.

My eyes stung, begging for sleep, but I didn’t have a choice. I groaned and reached for the bell pull.

The speed at which my maid arrived at my door was highly suspicious. Had she been waiting in the corridor? Jane gave a curtsy as she advanced into the room to help me back into my rigid lilac gown. She was the most petite woman I had ever seen, likely not older than sixteen, with rosy cheeks and dark curls like my own. She looked particularly miniature standing beside me in the looking glass as she laced my stays. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder.

I caught her gaze in the reflection. “Do you…happen to know anything about this secret parlor game?” My voice was a scratchy whisper. I didn’t dare speak any louder.

Her eyes flitted to the floor. Her lips pressed together, and I could tell there was a lie hiding behind them. “I’ve never ‘eard of such a thing.” She unraveled my braid in silence and began pinning up the curls.

My stomach formed a knot. I swallowed hard against the worry rising in my throat.

She arranged my hair in a simple coiffure before taking her leave. Her rushed movements must have been due to Lady Tottenham’s instruction.

My heart thudded as I sneaked out into the corridor behind Jane. But she was already gone, vanished somewhere between the pockets of candlelight. The sconces flickered on the dark paneled walls. Intricate faces carved in the wood stared back at me. I gulped.

As I approached the staircase leading down to the ground floor, the sound of chattering voices and laughter drifted up from the parlor. The tension in my shoulders relaxed slightly. Had all of the guests been invited? It would come as a relief if I knew I hadn’t been singled out.

A creaking sound came from my left, cutting through the faint voices from below. I jumped, my hand flying to the bannister. I gripped it tight as I noticed the open door that had caused the sound.

And I nearly stumbled down the first stair when I noticed what was beyond the open door.

A man stood with one hand on the frame, the other on the brass door knob. His dark hair was mussed, a shadow of stubble covering the lower half of his face. He blinked in confusion, as if he had just been jostled awake. All he wore was a pair of dark knee breeches slung low across his hips, his chest and abdomen fully displayed in the candle light.

I averted my gaze, my neck growing hot. Whoever that man was, I hadn’t seen him amongst the other twelve guests at dinner. Of course his surprising state of undress had pulled my attention away from his face, but I didn’t dare take another look.

I rushed to turn around, fully intent to pretend I hadn’t seen him. The secret parlor game was suddenly far more inviting.

“Am I missing a party?” The man’s voice echoed in the corridor.

My feet froze. I kept my gaze fixed on the stairs ahead. “No.”

He was silent for a few seconds.

One particularly loud laugh drifted up from the parlor and betrayed me.

“There are people downstairs and you are about to join them,” the man said with a hint of accusation. “Obviously I am missing something.”

“Yes, you are.” I glanced back at his face, unable to hide my dismay. “Your shirt.”

The dazed look cleared from his eyes as they met mine. He looked down at his chest. Had he only just realized he wasn’t fully clothed? Half his mouth quirked upward. “Forgive me. I didn’t think there would be a lady sneaking about the corridor at this hour.” He shielded himself with the door, leaving just his head and one shoulder peeking through. Somehow, he didn’t seem embarrassed at all. His smile persisted.

My gloved fingers held tight to the bannister. “Did you not receive a letter under your door this evening?”

He took a step back and examined the floor. “No.”

“Then it would seem Lady Tottenham did not invite you.”

He frowned. “That isn’t very…hospitable.”

His face was somewhat familiar now, though I couldn’t place it. His features each paid a compliment to the other, creating a harmonious face that anyone would call handsome. Dark eyes, dark brows, tousled dark waves. He looked younger than most of the men at the house party—perhaps even younger than me by a small number of years. At twenty-nine, I wasn’t a youthful blossom anymore. I was an aged widow for all of society to pity.

Awkwardness hung in the air as he continued standing in the doorway, curious eyes fixed on me. My best guess was that he had arrived late and missed the events and introductions from earlier in the evening. We should not have been speaking without an introduction, but I had quickly discovered that entering Lady Tottenham’s house was like entering an cage where the rules of society no longer existed. It was surreal and disquieting to say the least.

“Are you permitted to bring a guest with you?” The man asked. There was an edge of flirtation in his voice that made my shoulder blades tighten.

I turned around to face the stairs. “No. And you are fortunate to have been excluded from the invitation. I envy you. I would much rather be confined to my room sleeping.”

“Perhaps I should accompany you and request entrance to this secret party.”

His voice had grown closer, which told me he had stepped away from the door. He must have trusted that I wouldn’t turn around to see his exposed upper-body again—or he didn’t care.

Or he wanted me to.

All were very plausible intentions.

“What are you doing?” My voice was panicked. It would not serve my reputation at the house well to have a shirtless man following me at midnight.

“I wish to come.”

“You cannot,” I said in a harsh whisper. “You were not given a letter.”

“If it will make you more comfortable, I will put on a shirt. Even a waistcoat if you insist upon it.” His flirtatious tone caused a scowl to crease my forehead.

I kept my gaze fixed on the stairs ahead, eager to rush down them and escape his determined questioning. If I could invent something that might make the effort of attending too troublesome, he might leave me alone. I searched my mind for an idea. “A shirt and waistcoat will not be enough,” I said in a stern voice. “In Lady Tottenham’s letter, she insisted that gentlemen come dressed in their most fashionable riding attire. She specified a need for white leather knee breeches, two waistcoats, a wool frock coat, and a neck cloth of the French affectation. As for footwear…only Hessians will be tolerable. For headwear, she favors a bicorn hat.”

The man was silent for several seconds before he gave a laugh of disbelief. “All of that for the parlor?”

“Yes. As you see, it is not worth the effort, and not worth displeasing Lady Tottenham. Please excuse me.” I didn’t wait for a response. With the bannister as my guide, I hurried down the dark staircase. I only dared to look back once I was safely on the ground floor. Part of me had expected him to follow me, but I was relieved to find the staircase empty.

I wrapped my arms around myself with a deep breath, rubbing my elbows. I couldn’t be seen until I was composed. I straightened my posture outside the parlor, listening to the voices within. Had they started their game without me?

Just as the thought crossed my mind, the door swung open wide.

I jumped. Lady Tottenham faced me, her hand still clutching the doorknob. “Ah! Lady Daventry, I was just about to send someone to break down your door.” She chuckled deep in her throat before her expression snapped into solemnity. “Make haste. We have been waiting far too long for you.”

My eyes adjusted to the bright candlelight, bringing Lady Tottenham into clearer view. She wore a taffeta evening gown, the ribbons and trims an assortment of orange, red, and pink. Her hair, only slightly less orange, was piled atop her head in a cone shape, mimicking a flame. Curls spilled out from the arrangement and framed the sharp, playful features of her face: green eyes, a pointed nose, and lips smeared with dark rouge.

“What are these secret parlor games?” I whispered as I took her extended elbow.

“You shall soon find out.” She practically shook me off her arm, depositing me on a settee beside a gentleman. I glanced at my surroundings. There had been thirteen total guests at dinner, not including the shirtless new arrival. I had been introduced to all of them, but now their names escaped me. In total, there were only eight guests seated around the parlor. Four women, and four men.

Lady Tottenham drifted away to the center of the room, taking a graceful seat in her striped silk chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe all the participants have now arrived.” She grinned, revealing a smudge of rouge on her front tooth. “Let the games begin.” She crossed her hands in front of her, glancing at each of the guests in turn. I followed her gaze around the room.

There was Mrs. Fitzgibbon, also a young widow, who was seated beside her cousins, Miss Morton and Miss Rowley. The poor young girls likely hadn’t realized how a house party hosted by Lady Tottenham might risk their reputations. Mrs. Fitzgibbon was a naive chaperone to have approved her cousins’ attendance. For a moment, Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s eyes met mine, ablaze with excitement. She was either oblivious, or just as wild as Lady Tottenham.

The gentlemen in the room consisted of Mr. Amesbury, Mr. Barnwall, Mr. St. Vincent, and Lord Kirkham. Lady Tottenham had made it clear at dinner that all the guests in attendance were single, unattached, and ripe for the picking.

She had used those precise words.

I was not ripe, nor was a looking to be picked. Not when Miles was so close to returning. To my friends and family, I had pretended to have cared less for him than I did. But in truth, I had never forgotten him, nor my feelings for him. I had never forgotten the painful circumstances that had prevented us from marrying. I had never stopped loving him or waiting for him, even if it made me a pitiful, boring widow in the eyes of society.

“Good evening, my lady.” The gentleman beside me interrupted my thoughts. His large forehead gleamed with perspiration, and the thinning dark hair that remained on his head was combed to one side.

“Good evening, Mr. Barnwall.”

During dinner I had learned that his wife had died two years before, leaving him the sole parent of six young children. He had a fortune vast enough to employ nannies and governesses to watch over them while he enjoyed parties like this in London. From what I understood, he was only at home a few weeks each year. I was not particularly fond of Mr. Barnwall already.

My father had shown a similar disinterest in my sister and me, and so I found such views on parenthood entirely detestable. According to Lady Tottenham, Mr. Barnwall had come here to secure a new mother for his children. By the way he was looking at me, it was clear that his eager eyes were searching for signs that I might qualify. As a widow on the shelf, he would assume I had few options to choose from.

Mr. Amesbury sat across from me, legs crossed, hands fidgeting nervously. He had blond curls, a friendly face, and from what I had learned, a small fortune and modest country estate to boast of. He appeared to be the youngest of the gentlemen, likely in his late twenties.

Mr. St. Vincent was rather stoic, with large side whiskers and black hair. All I knew was that his favorite pastimes consisted of gambling and drinking.

Last of all, there was Lord Kirkham, a baron from Lancashire. I had never seen a man with such a rectangular face. The width of his jaw and forehead matched perfectly, and his thick, short neck led to a pair of hefty shoulders. He smiled in anticipation. Those teeth…he had proudly told the story at dinner—the story of how they had been chipped and broken in a match of fisticuffs. Working toward the center, one tooth was completely missing, the next was halfway broken, and the last was chipped at the bottom. It looked like a staircase.

Lady Tottenham spoke to the group again. “You may wonder why I have chosen you to participate this evening.”

I tapped my foot on the rug. Yes, please do enlighten me.

“I consider you my friends, and at one point or another, you have all expressed to me your desire to marry and be well-matched.”

I narrowed my eyes. I couldn’t recall such a conversation. Lady Tottenham had expressed her wishes for me to marry and be well-matched, but I had never agreed with her. I had never told her about Miles. My stomach spiraled with nerves as she continued her introduction.

“Since the death of my dear husband decades ago, I have come to thoroughly enjoy the art of matchmaking. I find that giving a friend the opportunity of a love like the one I experienced, is the greatest gift I could ever provide.” Her smile grew impossibly wider. “It is now my honor to act as your matchmaker. During the remainder of your stay at my house, you will be given opportunities such as this one, to meet others in the party in a more…intimate setting…with whom you might be compatible.”

I caught myself shaking my head. I stopped, clenching my jaw instead. What on earth was she thinking? Only Lady Tottenham would be so unabashedly public about her intentions.

Escape was still possible. I could pretend to faint, or claim illness. I had never been tempted to do something so ridiculous and ungraceful, but the alternative was far worse. My mind spun as I glanced around the room again. Which one of these men did she have in mind for me? If she had chosen only a select number of guests to attend the midnight game, she must have given some thought to the idea of who among us might be most compatible. I exchanged a glance with Miss Morton, who looked just as appalled as I was.

Lady Tottenham continued with that ever-widening smile. “If even just one match can be made in the duration of the party, I will be quite overjoyed. Now, who’s it to be?” She cast her gaze at each of us in turn.

It most certainly wouldn’t be me.

The ladies in the room were all pale, but the men all sat a little straighter. I felt their eyes grazing over me. I felt like a mouse in a field, waiting to be plucked up against my will. No one dared interrupt Lady Tottenham’s speech, or decline their participation. She was clever. Rather merciless, too. Opting out of her ‘games’ would likely result in being snubbed for the rest of the house party.

Or sent away.

I couldn’t do anything to upset her. I had to remain in London long enough to see Miles. I could participate in a few harmless games, but that didn’t mean I had to meet my match among her guests. I told myself to relax, and my pulse finally started to slow. The tension in my shoulders loosened.

Candlelight gleamed off the whites of Lady Tottenham’s eyes as she paced back to her chair. “The first game will be a variation of bullet pudding.” She snapped her fingers, and the parlor door opened. A footman brought in a silver tray holding a perfectly shaped and compressed mound of flour. He placed it on the tea table, then placed a bullet on top of it.

Mrs. Fitzgibbon gave a nervous laugh. “Is this not a Christmas game, my lady? It’s August.”

“I am aware that it’s August,” Lady Tottenham snapped. “That’s why we will not be playing it the traditional way.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbon sat back, pressing her lips together. The excitement I had seen in her eyes had faded since Lady Tottenham’s announcement about her matchmaking scheme. I didn’t know the story behind Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s widowhood, but no matter how or why someone became a widow, it usually gave that person reservations about marrying a second time. There were several widows who had been invited to the party. Lady Tottenham seemed to favor us, intent to take us under her wing. Besides Mrs. Fitzgibbon, there was myself, and a woman named Mrs. Pike.

It took me a moment to register the surprise on Lady Tottenham’s face.

“Mr. Holland? I didn’t expect you downstairs this evening.” Her eyes were fixed on the door. Mr. Holland. That was Miles’s surname.

I must have imagined her words. My heart thudded in my chest. Surely he wasn’t here. He wasn’t due to arrive in Town for at least a month, and there was no reason he would have been invited to her house party.

Lady Tottenham’s mouth was agape. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

I shook the fog from my head and turned around.

The man in the doorway was the same one I had seen upstairs. But now, he wore white leather knee breeches, two waistcoats, a wool coat, and a neck cloth of the French affectation. My throat dried up like a leaf as I noticed the tassels on his hessians and the bicorn hat atop his head. He looked like he was prepared to go on a lengthy horseback ride in December.

But it was, indeed, August.

I had not expected him to own all of those articles of clothing, but with autumn coming, it was reasonable that he would have brought a wool coat. Perhaps I had underestimated the depth of his traveling trunk.

I found his face beneath the shadow of his hat. He took a visual sweep of the room, his expression twisting in confusion. Then his gaze found me, and realization crept over his face. His eyes declared a war of sorts.

I wanted to disappear into the settee cushions.

Mr…. Holland?

I stared at him, and in an instant, his features clicked together like a puzzle in my mind. A fourteen-year-old boy, mischievous and ill-mannered, sent off to boarding school by his parents. I remembered that summer. I had been fifteen, and Miles had been eighteen. It was the summer I discovered my feelings for him. I had spent so much time focused on Miles that I had hardly noticed anything else.

The person in front of me now…I couldn’t blame myself for not recognizing him. It had been another fourteen years since I had seen his face. He had doubled in age since then. He had grown up. He was no longer a boy.

He was Alexander Holland—Miles’s unscrupulous younger brother.