Chapter 1

October 1810

Fifteen years later

MAB TRIED HER HARDEST not to glare at her father sitting at the far end of the dining table. He silently thumbed through the newspaper, occasionally letting a hmm or a hah slip through his lips, which generally meant he was about to share some tantalising news from the announcements section. From her peripheral vision, Mab caught him glancing over the paper at her. She counted silently in her head.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “I say, darling Mab, you will never believe who has finally tied the knot!”

Mab deliberately chewed her finger sandwich slowly. She watched as her father shifted uncomfortably in his chair while he waited. She threw him an apologetic shrug and pointed to her mouth, still chewing .

“Unless that sandwich is filled with toffee, dearest, there is no call for it to take so long to finish.”

Mab swallowed. “Fine!” she barked in exasperation. “Who is to be shackled now, Father?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed on her. “Was it not for the fact that I am rather excited about this particular piece of news, Mab, I would surely reprimand you for your attitude.”

Mab stifled a scoff. Her father never reprimanded her. Not that he ever really had a call to. To all intents and purposes, she was a good daughter. She generally did what was asked of her and had a very loving relationship with her father. There were only ever three things that irked her father about her. The first was her attitude – though, for the most part, her father found her quips amusing. He was an open book and could never hide the little pull on his lips when she answered back or did something unladylike. Though this only ever happened in private – she wouldn’t dream of letting her father down in public. It only truly bothered him when he was trying to talk about a serious subject matter.

The second was her manners. While Mab’s mother had been born high in the ranks of the peerage, her father had not. Mab could speak like a lady if she chose to; however, Mab’s natural inclination was to speak like a docker. Her father’s side of the family, who she’d spent some of her most adventurous summers with, were as rough as they came. And while Mab might dress like a lady, had the purse strings of a lady, and the affluence of a lady, her heart (and natural mannerisms) would always be firmly with her Liverpudlian docker side of the family.

The third thing that she was regularly chastised for was her refusal to marry.

Since Mab had turned seven and twenty almost a year ago, her father had transformed into an old mother hen almost overnight. For the past year, he had clucked incessantly over the topic of marriage, and afternoon tea was his favourite time to ambush .

Once upon a time, afternoon tea had been a much livelier affair. The long dining table had been full of chatter and laughter as her mother and father had sat, heads together, giggling and gossiping at the head of the table. Mab and her older brother, John, would have been tasked with keeping the twins, Edwin and Jasper, from throwing sandwiches about the room. Which usually resulted in Mab having the equivalent of half a jar of jam in her hair. It had always been fun and bustling, and Mab had hated the quietness of mealtimes when she visited any of her friends’ homes for dinner.

Then pox hit.

Mab had been shipped off to her aunt’s house for a month in a bid to make her more ladylike in her manners. Mab had sneaked out of the house to do childish things when the news arrived at her aunt’s. She could remember it vividly, returning through the fog, back to the house, to find her aunt crumpled on the ground, sobbing her heart out.

Mab, against her parents’ direct orders, had demanded to be sent home. When her uncle had said that it was too dangerous, Mab had slipped out early in the morning and made her way to the local village. She paid a farmworker a handsome sum to take her the two days’ travel to her home in the back of a rickety old cart.

By the time she arrived, John and Edwin were already dead, and poor Jasper only had a few short breaths left before he joined them, his little fingers clasped weakly in Mab’s hand.

It had broken her parents. And Mab’s mother had joined her sons not long after. Malnourishment was the official cause of death on her certificate, though dying from a broken heart would have been more accurate.

For the last fifteen years, it had just been Mab and her father on their own.

“Mab?” her father called out, pulling her from her memory.

“I do not know, Father. Please, enlighten me as to which lucky lady has been plucked from her perch today.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed once more. “There is no need for that tone, Mab.”

Mab bit her tongue. “Sorry, Father. Please do go on.”

“None other than Mallory Shipton!” he said excitedly.

“Mallory who ?” Though she had a talent for recalling the most minute details of her memories, Mab was abysmal at remembering names and faces.

“Shipton, dear. You know, the Shiptons from Mosshill? Curious little creature she was. Had quite the tongue on her. You might have remembered her from a couple of seasons ago. She wore that raven-black dress to the ball the Deacons threw.”

Recognition sparked instantly in her mind. Mab vividly remembered approaching the glum-looking young girl at one of the umpteen balls she had attended that season. When Mab had asked Miss Mallory Shipton why she had attended her first ball looking like she had just come from a funeral, she had loudly proclaimed, “I am mourning my freedom, now that I am expected to be encumbered with a husband,” before gloomily twirling off into the shadows.

Mab had so desperately wanted to be her friend, but the wraith had not attended another ball since then.

“It is a wonder she had managed to find a husband at all, being tucked away in that old house for so long,” her father mused. In answer to Mab’s confused look, he continued, “Not long after her first ball, apparently one of her relatives became frightfully ill. You know, old age will come for us all,” he said, thumping his chest. “Anyway, she selflessly volunteered to look after her ailing relative for the past few years in ... oh ... now where was it I was told she had gone to?” He unconsciously twirled his whiskers. “Ah ... I want to say it was Glamorgan. Regardless, it would appear that she caught the eye of Mr George Westgrove while he was on his travels. Do you remember him, dear? His father is the one who got into a bit of bother over the ... ah well ... I guess that’s not pertinent now.”

How could she forget ?

Mr Westgrove had caught Mab’s eye a handful of times over the years. Had it not been for her adamant stance on the merits of marriage – that there were no merits to be had – Mab might have been swayed by Mr Westgrove. He had been one of the few male members of the ton that had more to his personality than simply being born a gentleman. He had been kind and courteous, always asking the wallflowers for a dance, and would never stand for a cruel word to be said about any of Mab’s fellow spinsters.

“Dear?” her father asked tentatively.

“Yes, Father?”

“Perhaps it is time that I aid you in finding a husband.”

Mab wanted to scream that he’d been trying none too subtly to do that for almost a year now.

Until recently, her father had been determined to allow Mab to marry for love, just as he and her mother had. When Mab rebuffed a suitor, her father showed him the door. That was until a year ago when her father fell off his horse. He couldn’t move from his bed for months, and still walked with a stiff leg. Since the moment he could get out of bed, he’d made it his life’s mission to see his only living child married.

Her father had attempted every tactic he knew to try to convince Mab to see the benefits of marriage. From screaming rows to moments of brief silent treatments ( very brief, as her father always relented by supper time), Mab’s answer was always the same.

A resounding no .

His current tactic was the gentle approach. However, Mab could see his resolve wearing thin.

“Father, may we move on to more important matters? There are three cottages that will need major repairs before the weather turns. We have the winter seed that absolutely must be planted by the end of the month if they are to grow at all, and—”

A crisp knock came from the door.

“Come in,” her father said .

Mr Ross, the portly red-nosed butler, waddled across the room. The solemn look on his face made Mab instantly hold her breath. Mr Ross only wore that look when he was about to deliver the worst kind of news.

Mr Ross bowed deeply as he presented her father with a silver tray, a heavy white letter bearing a black wax seal sitting atop it.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mab’s father reached out with shaking fingers and took the letter from the tray.

“Thank you, Mr Ross. That will be all,” her father said.

Mr Ross silently made his way across the room and closed the door. Mab watched her father turn the letter about in his hands. As her father’s eyes fell on the seal, his bushy white whiskers seemed to droop. Shakily, he broke the seal.

His azure eyes watered as he scanned the paper. His wrinkled white brows pulled into a frown as a tear silently slid down his cheek.

Her father cleared his throat. “It’s your uncle Brian,” he said quietly. “He ... he died of apoplexy last night. It ... It was very quick and ... and he would have felt no ... pain.”

Mab felt a sudden stabbing sensation in her chest. She grasped at her dress in a desperate bid to rid herself of the phantom pain. Her eyes prickled, and she began to shake uncontrollably.

Surely it couldn’t be true? Her uncle was just eight years older than her and more like a brother to her than an uncle. He had been her confidant, her shoulder to cry on when she needed it, and he always had a kind word to say.

How had he been taken by an old person’s disease?

Her uncle Brian was her father’s only male heir. He was to take on the business and possessions when her father passed, which had included inheriting his spinster niece to look after. Uncle Brian hadn’t been happy about it, arguing that Mab had more of a mind for business than he and it should all go to her. Unfortunately, the law was the law. And in the eyes of the law, Mab was to be her uncle Brian’s problem until she was married.

Aside from her father, her uncle Brian was the only other man in the country who Mab would trust to view the possession of her person as nothing more than a scribble on a piece of paper.

He was a good, kind man, who should have had years ahead of him.

And now he was gone.

Who was she going to gamble her pin money with on a game of cards?

Who was she going to giggle with at balls, laughing at all the unhappily married couples?

Who was going to let her cry on their shoulder when she felt she was letting her father down?

Mab felt hot tears cascade down her cheeks.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” her father whispered.

Her father mirrored her grief. Though, as she studied his face, his red-rimmed eyes boring into her, she noticed his grief momentarily replaced by determination.