Prologue

The Trouble With Rogues

Ophelia Delacourt sat by the window bouncing in anticipation, even though Mama had told her countless times to sit still.

But she was so terribly excited.

She hadn’t seen Papa in an age.

But he’d written to Mama and promised to come for Ophelia’s birthday. He’d even said he would bring gifts.

“Sit still, ma chere ,” Mama scolded gently, the French lilt in her voice accentuated by her own excitement. “You will crease your dress. And Papa will want to see you looking your very best.”

Ophelia scrambled to her feet, shaking out her white skirts and reaching up to make sure the blue ribbon was sitting just so in her sable curls before returning to sit as demurely as she could.

Her black locks were a mirror image of her mother’s, though Mama’s eyes were a deep, chocolate brown.

Ophelia’s were a striking, light grey. Something that she’d inherited from her father, the Earl of Batten.

So said Mama, in any case.

In truth, Ophelia couldn’t really remember much about her father, save for the slight trepidation she normally felt when Mama said he was going to visit.

He was large and intimidating; she knew that. And he smelt like pipe tobacco and oftentimes brandy. Ophelia knew the scent because Mama always had a bottle in their modest cottage for when the earl visited.

He never paid particular attention to Ophelia when he was here. He would pat her head and hand over a doll or a new gown or some sweetmeats, and then she would be sent away with Mrs. Jeffords, who acted as a sort of maid-cum-companion while Mama and Papa spent some time together. But it was so rare for them to receive visitors of any kind, and even though he seemed disinterested most of the time, he was still her father. And each time he visited, she couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the time that he would want to talk to her, play with her, and get to know her a little [JS1] .

She wasn’t allowed to tell Mrs. Jeffords or anyone that he was her father, however. She was to say that he was an uncle come to visit awhile. Ophelia had never known why that was the case, but she daren’t disobey Mama’s orders.

A movement up ahead caught Ophelia’s attention, and she leapt to her feet.

“He’s here, Mama! He’s here.”

Her mother smiled indulgently and came to stand by the window, her hand on Ophelia’s shoulder.

The lacquered carriage drew to a halt, and they both watched silently as a footman hurried to open the door of the conveyance and place a stool on the ground.

Ophelia could feel Mama’s nervousness as they awaited their guest.

But it wasn’t Papa who emerged. It was someone that Ophelia didn’t recognise.

She turned to ask Mama who this stranger was. The conveyance bore the crest of Papa’s family, so whomever the gentleman was, he must at least know the earl.

But Mama’s stricken expression was fixed on the man. A tall, much younger gentleman than Papa.

The hand on Ophelia’s shoulder tightened so much it hurt, and Ophelia pulled herself from Mama’s grip.

Mama didn’t even seem to notice.

She stood stock still as the sound of Mrs. Jeffords’ greeting sounded from the narrow hallway.

Whatever the man’s response was couldn’t be heard through the closed door.

For reasons she didn’t quite understand, Ophelia’s stomach knotted in trepidation.

“Mama, who is he? What should we do?”

Her anxious whispers went unacknowledged.

Seconds later, a knock on the door signalled the arrival of Mrs. Jeffords and the gentleman, who towered over them all.

Mama turned to face the door, her chin lifting, so Ophelia did the same.

Ophelia stared at him curiously, realising with a jolt that he had the same unusually light grey eyes as she. The same as Papa’s. Though his hair was a sandy brown.

“The Earl of Batten, Ma’am.”

Ophelia’s confusion only grew, as did her uneasiness.

Papa was the earl. Not this man with the same eyes.

“Delphine.”

Mama gasped as the gentleman, the earl apparently, called her by her Christian name with such distaste in his tone that he could have only meant to insult.

“M-my lord, I – I’m afraid I do not –“

“My father is dead, Delphine. He took a spill from his horse, and his heart gave out.”

Ophelia’s own heart thudded painfully at the news.

His father, he’d said. But the earl was her father, too.

This gentleman – this stranger. He was her brother?

And Papa was dead.

“No,” Mama’s whispered denial was filled with a world of pain and shock. “But he wrote only last week.”

“Yes, and he died only three days ago. You can imagine my surprise when I went through his personal affects and found, well—” his lip curled derisively “—you.”

Mama once more reached out and gripped Ophelia’s shoulders with trembling hands.

“ Ma chere , run along and ask Mrs. Jeffords to arrange a tea tray for – for the earl.” Mama’s voice was dampened by tears, and her dark eyes swam as they looked down at Ophelia.

“ Maman, tu vas bien?”

Ophelia didn’t know if the earl, her brother strange though that was, spoke French, but she didn’t want him privy to her fear.

Though she was but ten years old, she knew instinctively that this brother was no friend to her or her mother.

“Tea won’t be necessary,” the earl said stiffly. “I am come to see the child.”

Ophelia froze, her eyes darting to those of the new earl.

He ran an almost accusatory glare over her, from her new gown to the blue ribbon atop her sable curls.

“She is the only child of this – alliance?” the earl asked Mama, though his eyes remained fixed on Ophelia.

“Y-yes,” Mama answered shakily.

“You are not with child?”

Ophelia thought this must be an inappropriate question to ask, but Mama answered it as though this young man had the right to ask it.

“No, I am not,” she answered, her voice sounding a little stronger now, and indignant.

“Good. One bastard is enough of a headache.”

Ophelia’s eyes flew to Mama, who flinched as though the earl had reached out and slapped her.

“My daughter,” she said pridefully, “your sister is –“

“Is a bastard,” he cut across in a tone that said he found this entire meeting boring. “And will be a liability, if you decide to run your mouth. My mother doesn’t need any scandal attached to her name, and I don’t need it attached to the family.”

He eyed Ophelia again.

“She’s a reasonably pretty thing. There is no reason that she shouldn’t do well in life. I will pay for her education. We’ll call her an orphaned cousin, if anyone should ask. With those eyes, everyone will know she’s related.”

“But –“

“This is more than generous, as I am sure you will agree. You won’t be left destitute. The deeds for this property are in your name, and my father left you taken care of. Enough for you to live on here, away from Town and our holdings.”

“Ophelia will stay with me,” Mama insisted. “She must.”

The earl flicked a piece of lint from his green superfine, the bored expression lingering on his face.

All the while, he spoke not one word directly to Ophelia.

“It was his wish that his – that the girl be educated, and a match be secured for her. A dowry supplied.”

Ophelia could only stare, a lump of fright clogging her throat, as this stranger discussed her as though she weren’t even there.

“I do not have to do this, Delphine,” the earl bit out. “Father gave no indication that you even existed. Or the girl.”

“My name is Ophelia,” she said fiercely, refusing to show her trepidation.

His eyes flickered to hers, amusement lighting their grey depths.

“A finishing school will at least teach her not to interrupt her betters,” he said, and Ophelia felt the heat of shame fill her cheeks.

“It was only upon reading a letter found with his will that I realised my father had sired a bastard. I could easily leave you destitute,” he continued, “both of you. But I will make this one attempt to honour his wishes. One attempt, no more.”

For a moment, a bleak fury flitted across his face. As though the idea of honouring Papa’s wishes made him angry.

“If you wish the child to be educated and a dowry provided, then you will agree to her being sent to a school under the proviso that she keep her real identity a secret. She will be, as I said, an orphaned cousin. You will be provided with enough to live on until the end of your days. This cottage, when you die, will be left to –“ he glanced down at her, that flicker of amusement showing once more. “Ophelia.”

She swallowed and tipped her chin up in the face of his mocking.

“She’s wilful, but that will be stamped out of her at Miss Fisher’s,” he continued. “I will return tomorrow to collect her. If you decide to keep her here, no extra money will be provided, and that will be the end of all communication between my family and you.”

Without another word to either of them, he turned and swept from the room, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

Mama’s gentle sobs eventually penetrated the silence, and Ophelia rushed over to throw her arms around Mama’s waist.

“I won’t leave you, Mama,” she promised fiercely, her own eyes stinging with tears that she didn’t want to fall. “I won’t go to school. I’ll stay with you. I promise.”

Mama’s sobs grew louder for a moment before she reached down and pulled Ophelia’s chin up.

“My sweet, sweet girl,” Mama said tearfully. “I will not deprive you of this chance. I will not condemn you to a life like mine.”

Ophelia cried along with her mother. She begged. She pleaded. She threatened to run away and never come back.

But the next day when the earl arrived, she was packed and ready to leave with him.

She waved tearfully to Mama and set out for a future she didn’t even want.