Chapter 1

Mayfair, March 1813.

The privately hired carriage rattled from side to side, convincing Miss Margot Keating that this was the worst sort of transport available. Except perhaps for all the others.

Her eyes travelled across to her younger sister, Elspeth, who was snuggled up in the seat opposite her. She tried to take comfort from the fact that Elsie was tougher than she looked, resilient, and blessedly asleep. A gentle snore issued forth from Elsie's puckered rosebud mouth, her small hand tucked under her chin whilst she slept on.

Their plan was to journey down to London, to reach the Duke of Ashmore's abode. It had seemed logical five days ago when the two of them had left their home in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Now having travelled most of the length of the country, since Berwick-upon-Tweed was about forty miles from the Scottish border, as late afternoon set in, Margot was less convinced of the wisdom of her choices.

They would soon be entering high-society-laden streets filled with gleaming white mansions, black-suited gentlemen, and fabulously bejewelled ladies. Margot was worried she would be entirely out of place. A true country bumpkin. This was the world of Almack's, of gentlemen's clubs, Vauxhall Gardens, Gunter's Ices, where royalty mixed with aristocrats that the newspapers reported upon with breathless enthusiasm. But there were also brittle societal rules and infamous debauchery. It was all supposedly the height of the civilised world, but beneath its gleaming exterior, Margot was sure there would be rot.

Elsie stretched and curled up even further into her seat, her short legs resting on the squab, nestled alongside all her worldly belongings, which fitted into one valise. None of Margot's worries concerned her.

Opposite her, Margot presented quite a contrast. ‘Little and large', she thought of their nicknames growing up. Elsie was just over five feet; Margot was nearly six feet tall. Finding two more dissimilar sisters would be hard, despite only four years separating them. Her sister's caramel-coloured curls gave the impression of dainty prettiness, whereas Margot's dark chocolate waves refused to mould themselves into anything so fashionable. Normally, Margot laughed at the differences between them, but for the first time in her twenty-eight years, she wondered whether there would be an advantage to being more of the ideal feminine beauty that society demanded.

The carriage slowed, turning down a side street. Margot heard the driver calling out to the servants of the household.

"We're here?" Elsie asked. Her chestnut brown eyes were bright in the semi-light, and Margot could see her sister's smile. Elsie leant forward, trying to see more of the street and the house. They had agreed to come here, Elsie keen for the adventure, Margot far more cautious.

"I think it wise if you let me do most of the talking," Margot said. It had been what they'd already agreed, but as the older sister, she thought it worthwhile repeating herself. Part of Margot hoped that the next few hours went smoothly, but it was just a hope since she had never been in such a situation before. Nerves rippled through her, settling in her stomach, and she smoothed her hand over the material above her abdomen. She had some money saved, but she knew it would not stretch far in London.

"Of course." Elsie laughed. "I remember."

The door of the carriage opened, and an arm shot in there, offering to help them out.

Margot grasped the driver's hand and climbed from the carriage. She gave the man a brisk nod. "Is this 16 Bolton Street?"

The driver nodded as he helped Elsie out. "That's right, ma'am. This is where you paid to be taken."

She handed him the rest of his money, and then turned around, taking in the mansion before her. It was a handsome building, one which spoke of class, wealth, and it was far above what her parents had raised Margot to expect.

There was a startling noise that caused Margot's eyes to travel from her destination to the next-door building. It was somehow less neat, but more appealing. There was something almost bohemian, almost appealing about the neighbour's house, from the colourful purple-and-gold curtains to the doorway being the only one painted black. Quite why it pulled her attention to the extent it did, Margot could not say.

A small cough sounded behind her, and a short, rather saggy-jawed manservant with a fine white moustache was standing on the kerb, looking between Margot and Elsie, his expression one of polite inquiry.

Turning Margot took herself over to him. "Hello there. I'm Miss Keating. I was invited?—"

"Ah. I see, Miss Keating. A pleasure to welcome you. I am the butler, Hathaway." The manservant's expression, for a moment, flashed with a touch of considerable interest before it was schooled back into his former detachment.

"Hathaway. We wish to see the duke if he is available. I know he has extended his welcome. This is my sister; she is here as my companion. I hope this will not be an inconvenience."

With a slight bow, the manservant gestured behind him, and two footmen emerged and lifted their bags, carrying them inside the building.

"No indeed. We were expecting you, miss, and I will have another room prepared for your sister. A hired companion has been arranged, although Mrs. Bowley is not currently in residence…" Hathaway gestured towards the house. "Let us proceed inside, and I will get you settled in."

Following in his wake, Margot and Elsie proceeded inside the building. Elsie was all bright-eyed excitement, and Margot forced a matching smile onto her face, although her nerves had returned.

When they were summonedto the duke's study thirty minutes later, Margot was still not entirely ready for the meeting. Blinking, she straightened her dress and followed Hathaway through the labyrinthian townhouse.

Her initial reaction to Ashmore's residence was one of shock at the decadence. Having been raised by Vicar Arthur Keating and Julia, her mother, she was used to a more wholesome, homespun existence of a simple if rather weather-beaten cottage, consisting of only three bedrooms, and four other rooms for their use. Yet this home had been filled with love and kindness. In contrast, this London mansion was an environment more suited to stiff bows, rigid imported French furniture, and glaring stares from the paintings dotted along the hallway.

"Here we are, Miss Keating and Miss Keating." Hathaway opened the door and ushered them in, "This is the duke's study."

Margot stepped past the butler and into the study, Elsie following in after her.

The room was magnificently arrayed, but her eyes settled on the man in the corner of the space. He was rather shabbily dressed for who she assumed was the duke. He got to his feet when he saw them. The duke was around Margot's height, or perhaps an inch taller, in his fifties with greying hair. There was a tightness to his face, a sort of uncomfortable stiffness to his features. With a studious curiosity he moved forward to examine her, lifting a quizzing glass to his right eye to stare at her more closely.

The moment stretched as he looked her over. Margot started to feel annoyed, irritation building up within her, and she was about to speak when the duke finally dropped his monocle and said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Both of you."

"Likewise, your grace," Margot said.

"You were raised near Scotland by a… scholar?"

"A vicar," Elsie said.

"Keating." Added Margot.

The duke walked away from them, and back to his desk. Only then did Margot see that his hands were shaking, steadying when he put his fingers on the wooden top.

Ashmore looked now to Elsie. "You resemble dear Julia a great deal."

At the mention of their mother's name, Margot flinched. She was not comfortable with the duke discussing her mother.

"I suppose," the duke continued, "that Julia never told you the truth?"

"Neither of our parents have explained everything to our satisfaction," Margot said. She did not want the duke to know that this was one of the main reasons for her journey to London, to reveal that much seemed as if she were telling him everything.

"I have no doubt there were good reasons, but I am equally as certain to my very marrow that my Julia would never lie to me." The duke's eyes bored into Margot with an intensity that was close to hunger. "Looking at you tells me one thing: you are my daughter. There is a striking resemblance between you—" He studied Margot. "—and my own late mother. Thankfully, I suspect few will remember my mother. She was not often in society." His eyes drifted across to Elsie, and he frowned. "However, I am not your father, my dear."

"No, that would be Vicar Keating," Elsie said. There was a note of pride in her voice that Margot envied.

They had discussed between the two of them what the duke's response might be once the truth was announced publicly, how it was likely he would want to send Elsie off, however, the two of them came together. They had a plan for this. Margot took the armchair closest to the desk, hoping to be nearer to him and hear everything else.

The duke's letter had arrived eight weeks ago. It claimed that he was Margot's father. When Margot confronted Julia, her mother had turned pale and had begged Margot to cease with her questions. The man who Margot had always thought of as her father had reassured her that she was his daughter, but Margot had been unable to forget the missive. When Elsie had read the letter, she had noticed that the duke promised there would be an inheritance. She and her sister were both considered old maids by society. They had a small allowance generously provided by Vicar Keating, but it was their younger brother who needed help to afford his place at university. Besides, it would be nice to have enough for Elsie and her to finally move into their own cottage. If Ashmore could act as something of a father, it would be better than nothing. This was the resolve they had reached together, although Margot was now questioning how much she really wanted that money.

"Why did you never wed my mother?" Margot asked abruptly.

"I was the son of a duke. Admittedly only the third son, but still a rank above a companion…" His grace trailed off there, and fixed Margot with eyes that were disconcerting similar to her own woody hazel shade. Now she looked closer, even the shape of their eyes was alike. "I regret it. If you must know," the duke added.

"Is that why you finally made contact with me after twenty-eight years?"

"Julia—"

"Please call my mother Mrs. Keating, your grace." Margot sniffed. They might be discussing the most scandalous of secrets, one that picked and exposed Margot at her very core, but she wanted something kept proper and separate between her mother and the duke.

"Very well. When Mrs. Keating told me she was with child, I did not have the means, nor the inclination, or my brother the then duke's blessing to wed. She left Town almost immediately, only writing to me once she was wed to her vicar. She told me of your birth, and that Vicar Keating had claimed you as his own. I sent money, but I never heard from her again."

"That was the least you could do."

"I assumed," Ashmore continued, "that the sum would be enough to cover everything you might need as an infant, and then again when you were older."

"Indeed." Margot felt no obligation to thank him. The duke had cast her mother out when she was vulnerable, and it was only thanks to Vicar Keating, the man who was her true father, that Julia and she had survived and thrived.

"Why now?" Elsie asked.

"My letter surely explained this to you." He looked at Margot, obviously wishing that Elsie would leave.

"Your letter requested my presence here," Margot replied.

"I offered you an inheritance. Of sorts."

Margot met his eye. She wondered if he expected her to feel embarrassed in needing money. But to her there was no shame to it. She might be the duke's daughter, but she had not been raised with such advantages, and the news he gave her—that she was baseborn—meant only one thing: if it was ever discovered, she would never be able to wed, she would never be respectable.

"I am prepared to help you, in return for a favour." The duke again looked pasty; his very skin sweaty. "I will claim you as my goddaughters, or distant cousins say, and launch you into society if you wish. I have with that in mind paid for a companion to be here, to protect your reputation. We will say your parents are dead, so no possible rumours will be connected to me."

"What do you want in exchange for that favour?" Elsie asked.

Ashmore looked between them, weighing their faces, judging them in equal measure. "I will tell you everything when I know you a little better. Dinner will be at eight o'clock. Tomorrow I will have my papers in order, and be able to tell you everything. You are dismissed."

Feeling as if she were half her age, Margot turned and exited the room with Elsie. The two of them walked back through the house, neither, for the first time in their lives, knowing what to say. This was not what they had expected.

Dinner itself was a stilted affair,Ashmore quizzed them but only in the lightest and most superficial of ways—about their accomplishments, chiefly. Mrs. Bowley had still not arrived, and it was agreed that even she would only know them as Ashmore's goddaughters, nothing more. It was clear that the duke trusted very few people.

After the meal, Ashmore declared he would retire to his study, but that Elsie and she were at liberty to make use of the library, stables, and anything in the house.

He walked them towards the stairs. Through the walls there carried an uproarious noise of next door's party. Elsie's eyes were alight with curiosity, and her query was answered when Ashmore said dismissively, "Oh, that is Langley. He's an earl. You had best avoid him when you're out and about. He's got a frightful reputation as one of the fastest young men in Town. Just another one of his parties."

With that, Ashmore waved them upstairs.

The two of them linked arms and went to their bedrooms, parting when Elsie said she felt tired. Finding sleep beyond her, Margot moved around her new bedroom, stretching her legs, her white nightdress billowing around her. Finally, she settled on going downstairs to fetch a book, and hoping that this would help her sleep.

The library was heaven. It was lined in heavy oak bookcases, which had leather-bound classics from novels to poetry to plays, and Margot happily lost herself in the contemplation of a delicious French romance. It was only when there was a loud noise from Ashmore's study that she realised a whole hour had passed. Hurriedly, she roused herself from the armchair and walked out into the hallway. The noise was louder now, and it sounded distinctly like a struggle.

On entering Ashmore's study, Margot was met with a scene that shocked her. Ashmore had drawn a short sword, but the masked man who had clearly entered through the rear door of the study was carrying a pistol and a knife. The door to the garden was fluttering open in the breeze.

They had been engaged in an almighty fight, and Margot, who had never seen the like before, wondered if she should faint. Then she saw Ashmore's injured arm and that there was a streak of blood on the intruder's neck. Instinctively she rushed to the fireplace, putting aside her fear, and grabbed up the poker. Whoever the attacker was, he was clearly not afraid.

It seemed that this move of hers brought a threat to the intruder, because he levelled the pistol at her, his cold dark eyes visible through the domino mask he wore. There was a bang that ricocheted out, loud enough Margot thought to wake the whole household. When the smoke cleared, Margot was surprised to see that Ashmore had thrust himself between her and the bullet.

Around Margot, there was the sound of screaming. It took her far too long to realise that the noise was coming from her.

The attacker was moving closer to the staggering Ashmore, and so hurrying forward, Margot hit the assailant with her poker, keeping him away from the duke. From outside the room, the sounds of the household moving became apparent.

"We're in here," Margot yelled, her voice breaking.

With one last desperate swipe at Ashmore, there was a strange ripping noise and then the intruder darted outside through the back door and out of sight.

Margot turned and looked down at the man who had taken a bullet for her. It must have hit the duke in his chest, as it was creating a blooming red crest on his white shirtfront. In his hand there was a sheet of paper, torn in half.

Ashmore folded to the floor. He was coughing, and there was pink froth at his mouth. With a jagged breath he offered her the paper. "It's a map."

The wheels in Margot's head were moving slower than she liked, but she managed to take the paper. "What is it, what's it a map for?"

"The wealth of my family. The Ashmoreton Diamonds, they aren't a rumour, they're real."

Margot looked down at the map, but she could barely take it in, none of the sites or markings made any sense to her through her swimming eyes.

"Go after him." Ashmore grabbed her free hand. "He's been hunting me for months. That's why I sent for you. Bastard has stolen the other half of the map."

Unevenly moving, Margot made it to the open doorway. She edged forward, enough to see the attacker slipping from the duke's garden and over the wall into the noisy, bohemian household that belonged to Langley. He made his way into the earl's house.

Ashmore was on the carpet when Hathaway entered and hurried to his side. There was blood pouring from the duke's lips and he was ashen, but the duke ordered Margot on. "Go after my killer, girl. It is the only way to get the map back."

His voice echoing in her ears, unthinkingly Margot followed the attacker, tears and blood and fury beating through her as she scrambled over the wall and into the next-door garden. Up the similarly designed steps, and into what in Ashmore's house was his study. But the room laid out before her was certainly not ever going to be used for anything studious.

A sprawling mass of bodies, male and female forms were draped over every surface. Cluttering up sofas, and chairs, and even one balanced on a desk. Their limbs straining and pumping into one another with a ferocity that shocked Margot. They were copulating in angles and locations she, raised as a vicar's daughter, would never have imagined. She might have been naive, but she knew all too well what these people were doing—they were fornicating. En masse, clearly pleased and titillated by the sight of each other.

Deep, rich colour stained her cheeks, but Margot desperately eyed the couples, trying to see where Ashmore's assailant had vanished to. But they were all wearing masks, a strange attempt to hide themselves when they were all so very naked.

Margot's gaze ran into a man, stood stock still amongst the others, a charming blonde pulling on his arm—but he was staring at Margot, his face agog. He was at least partly dressed, a long white shirt hiding his nether regions but revealing toned, muscular thighs and long, chiselled legs. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to the elbow, revealing forearms that made Margot's breath catch. Their eyes locked, and for a moment it dawned on Margot that this man, this half-clothed Adonis, was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen.

Then the door shifted ajar behind him, and she saw the intruder. He was the only one clothed, and there was blood on him. He was escaping. Margot raised her poker over her head, and pointed at the door. "Murderer!"