Chapter One

London, England

June 1817

“Ido wish you would have allowed me to resolve this, Maman.” Sophie Redwell, daughter of the deceased third Earl of Rydleshire and sister to the entirely fabricated fourth, stared out the carriage window at the dreary streets of rainy London. The weather matched her spirits. Why could Maman not have been more patient? She fixed as stern a look as she dared on her mother. “There was no need to bring this to Her Majesty’s attention. No need whatsoever.”

“The last threat we received specifically targeted the queen as well as the two of us.” Nia Redwell, dowager Countess of Rydleshire, repeatedly tapped her closed fan atop her knee, revealing her agitated state. “If the blackmailer focused solely upon ourselves, I would have allowed you to address this issue however you saw fit.” Her usually calm visage hardened into a furious scowl. “But the assassin now threatens Her Majesty. It is our duty to inform her.” She drew in a deep breath, snapped open the fan, and furiously fanned herself, leaving no doubt that she dreaded this visit as much as Sophie did.

Sophie fiddled with the beaded strings dangling from her reticule, willing the dismal day to either encourage them with sunshine or storm so fiercely they would be forced to take shelter. The latter was her preference, of course—anything to delay what would undoubtedly be a very unpleasant audience with the queen.

She glanced down at the delicate brocade purse in her favorite shades of purple. It held the missives from the dangerous individual who had made it quite clear that they were not merely interested in selling their silence for a good deal of blunt. No, indeed. Whoever had discovered the truth about the fake fourth Earl of Rydleshire had decided they not only wanted to see Maman and Sophie hanged for the elaborate scheme but also wished to name the queen as an accomplice in perpetuating a false peer to keep the title and its entailments from reverting to the monarchy and becoming a treat for Mad King George, and now Prinny, to bestow upon one of their pets.

How the fiend had discovered that the queen did indeed know about the twenty-five-year ruse was beyond Sophie’s imagining. This newfound enemy was more dangerous than any she had ever encountered. They knew entirely too much. Names. Dates. Details so intimate that she believed the miscreant had to be either a former servant from her birthplace in Calais, France, or someone from the nearby village. She should never have shared the letters with Maman until after she resolved the matter and had the fiend permanently silenced by whatever means required. Then this visit with the intimidating monarch would be entirely unnecessary.

The fact that the queen had ordered them to join her at her secluded cottage near Kew worried Sophie even more. Very few received invites to Queen Charlotte’s favorite sanctuary. In this case, the invitation was likely to be dire. The uneasiness in her middle churned and sloshed to the point of making her swallow hard and clear her throat to keep from becoming ill. “Did you make Her Majesty aware of all the details of the threats?”

Maman snapped her fan shut and tucked it inside her reticule. “My letter to her consisted of nothing but our code word. I considered that safest, considering the circumstances.”

Periculum: Latin for danger, insecurity, peril. Sophie cleared her throat again, thankful she had taken nothing more than a weak cup of tea before departing from their townhouse in Mayfair. If she had bothered to eat a morsel or drink her usual chocolate, no doubt existed in her mind that she would be casting up her accounts while hanging her head out the window of the carriage. She hated feeling all jittery and sick. It was utterly ridiculous, considering her usually fearless viewpoint on most things. She was an exemplary archer. Her swordsmanship was quite impressive, and her ability to untangle secrets had always made Maman quite proud. It was a rare thing that made her nervous or instilled fear within her. Queen Charlotte was one of those things.

A shrill squeak escaped her as the carriage jerked to a halt in front of the cottage.

“Sophie!” her mother hissed with an exasperated glare. “Do compose yourself.”

“Forgive me.” She repaired her nervously chewed lips by reapplying a sparing amount of rose lip salve, then quickly tucked the tin back into her reticule before following Maman out of the carriage by way of the regally carpeted steps held in place by an unsmiling servant.

Two more of the queen’s footmen, who were of the exact same height and dressed in their elaborate livery of crimson coats with gold braiding, knee breeches, stockings, and powdered hair, stood at attention, flanking the doorway to the left of the cottage’s large center window. Neither smiled nor made eye contact, but both left Sophie with the distinct impression that they never missed the simplest detail or quietest whisper.

Another stoic man, whom Sophie remembered from a prior visit as the queen’s secretary, opened the door before they reached it. He offered them a formal bow. “Lady Rydleshire. Lady Sophie. Her Majesty awaits you in the drawing room. Follow me, please.”

He led them up a curved staircase to a room with a vaulted ceiling that softly draped at the apex with a gently curved arch. Delicately painted vines blooming with a multitude of colorful flowers crisscrossed the curves overhead and ran down the corners where the walls met. The background for the vines on both the walls and ceiling was a pale, earthy green that reminded Sophie of springtime. Even though the day was rainy, natural light streamed in from the large center window identical to the one on the first floor centered between the two doors at the front of the cottage.

As soon as they entered, both Sophie and her mother halted and offered their deepest curtsies.

“Your Majesty,” the dowager uttered in a reverent tone while keeping her head bowed.

“Come. Sit.” Regal and somewhat terrifying with her astonishingly high, upswept hair and lavish gown of pale blue silk embellished with pearls and lace, Queen Charlotte eyed them with the vigilance of a royal falcon about to descend upon its prey.

Sophie remembered the monarch hardly if ever smiled—and when she did, one better brace oneself, because a royal command that would be neither easy nor pleasing was almost always forthcoming.

“Leave us,” the monarch ordered her secretary. “And close the door behind you.”

“But Your Majesty—”

The queen had but to lift a brow to send the man scurrying on his way. The door closed with a soft thump behind him. One of her beloved dogs, a tiny, fluffy thing of the purest white, gave a haughty yip, as if to remind the secretary to never question Her Majesty again.

“Thank you, Phoebe.” Her Highness scratched the little Pomeranian behind its pointed ears and cuddled it closer. “I am quite certain he took your instruction to heart.”

Her other furry companion, a Pomeranian colored the shade of fresh honey, placed its tiny paws on her lap, threw out its chest, and trembled with an almost laughable growl.

“Now, now, Mercury. Jealousy is most unbecoming.” After resettling her precious pups back among the lavish folds of her gown that covered the settee on either side of her, the queen fixed an unnerving glare first on Sophie and then on the dowager countess. “Periculum?”

Lady Rydleshire straightened her back and squared her shoulders. “Yes, Your Majesty. We have been discovered and are threatened.”

The queen ratcheted her brows higher. “We?”

Sophie’s mother bowed her head. “I am afraid so. You were included in the most recent threat to expose the truth about the Rydleshire title.”

The monarch’s expression hardened as her piercing gaze slid back to Sophie. “Details, girl. As I assume you were the one who received these threats and brought them to your mother’s attention. It has not escaped my notice that she has been quite busy at King Louis’s court.” She cast a sour look back at the dowager countess, and her mouth puckered as though she smelled something foul. “I mean, really, Nia? You have always possessed a much more discriminating taste than that. I am very disappointed in you.”

The dowager opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and once more bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“If you continue trembling and groveling like a traitorous subject, I shall soon doubt our friendship. Cease such behavior immediately.”

“I am concerned for your safety, my precious queen. And if anything dire comes of this, I shall never forgive myself.” Lady Rydleshire drew a lacy handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to the corners of her eyes.

Sophie ached for her mother’s distress, knowing how much dear Maman treasured her close friendship with the queen—not because of the power such a relationship entailed, but because she truly adored Queen Charlotte. Sophie straightened her spine and sat taller, determined not to cower. “The blackmailer is not only asking for money, Your Majesty. They want Maman and me hanged, and your knowledge about the Rydleshire title made public and brought before Parliament.” She brought forth the threatening letters and gently slid them onto the table in front of the queen. “They have names, dates, and details. I cannot help but feel that this person once worked in our household in Calais.”

The queen expelled an irritated hiss and looked even more displeased. “But you have yet to find this scoundrel and silence them?”

“I have not, Your Majesty, but I know I am close.”

“How close?”

The queen would ask that. Sophie swallowed hard and tried to remember to breathe. She didn’t dare lie. Queen Charlotte seemed to possess the ability to peer into one’s soul. “I have worked on this for some time now,” Sophie said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I know I am quite close.”

“How. Close?”

Her Majesty was not known for her patience, and Sophie sensed she had reached its end. She relented and blew out a heavy sigh, consigning herself to the possibility of being beheaded. Well, that was doubtful. But the queen’s displeasure, along with Maman’s, was just as unpleasant as an execution. “I do not know, Your Majesty. Not yet. But I will not rest until I find them. Make no mistake.”

The royal rolled her eyes, then turned back to Sophie’s mother. “You assured me this would never happen, Nia.”

“I never believed that it would.” The dowager gave a sad shake of her head. “And unfortunately, I cannot use my usual resources due to the sensitive nature of this matter.”

“Agreed,” the queen said. “I would not wish this particular assignment given to any of your current apprentices or the associates from your past life.” Her irritated scowl made Sophie fear the beheading might actually become a reality. “Have you recently dismissed anyone from your household in Calais?”

“No, Your Majesty.” Sophie fidgeted in the chair, cringing when it creaked. “Most of our servants have been with us since I was born. Even those with the fewest years of service have been in our employ for well over five years.”

“Then your suspicion of the blackmailer being a former member of your staff is illogical.” Queen Charlotte dismissed Sophie with another impatient roll of her eyes and focused on the dowager. “Have you taught this child nothing? You were once my very best agent, Nia.”

Sophie’s mother reached over and patted Sophie’s arm. “My daughter is now the best, and I trust her implicitly. It was she who trained the spy who uncovered the plot to assassinate the prince regent.”

The queen hissed again, sounding like a sputtering teakettle. “Heaven only knows we would never wish any ill upon my dearest Georgie, now would we?”

Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Her Highness’s tone suggested that she and the prince regent had still not overcome their discord over who should rule in the king’s stead when His Majesty had become permanently incapacitated by madness.

“Our concern is now for you,” the dowager countess said. “Sophie and I can manage our part in this as long as your safety—both physically and politically—is secured.”

“Obviously, you cannot manage this situation in any manner at all.” The queen leaned forward and, with the tiniest silver spoon, scooped up a portion of dark brown dust from a small crystal bowl. She sprinkled the snuff onto the side of her hand beside her thumb and inhaled it up her nose with a sharp sniff. “You have come here to warn me of this unpleasantness, and yet you possess absolutely no information other than the miscreant’s written demands. Not only that, but you offer no resolution.” She shook her head. “I am very disappointed in you, Nia.” She turned to Sophie. “And with you, child, I am most unimpressed. Did it never occur to you that this entire situation could have been avoided if you had debuted several years ago? At an appropriate age, I might add. Then you could have married well to make this all go away. Why was that not done, I ask you?”

“We could not possibly risk it,” Sophie said, perhaps a little sharper than she should have. “Not with the secret of the title hanging in the balance.” She had known this meeting would be unpleasant, but to be told by the queen that she was not only most unimpressive but also a mindless spinster cut her to the quick. “Your Majesty, you must—” Queen Charlotte’s narrow-eyed glare silenced her and dared her to continue. Sophie was not so dimwitted as to take that dare.

“Be that as it may,” the queen said, sharply biting out each word, “if today does not come to pass as I have deemed it shall, the two of you shall return here tomorrow at precisely the same hour.” Her irritated scowl darkened even more. “Unless, of course, I have a prior commitment to another of those unpleasant receptions with Georgie.” She drew herself up like an insulted peahen. “I should refuse all such engagements after that incident in April. The audacity of them jeering at the queen. After my many years of service. How dare they?”

“Most unforgivable,” the dowager countess hurried to say.

“You should have ordered them beheaded.” Sophie clamped her mouth shut. She should not have said that.

The queen did not smile, but definitely appeared to be more pleased than she had since their arrival. “Perhaps you are not so unimpressive after all, dear girl.”

A timid pecking on the door interrupted them, followed by a hesitant “Your Majesty?”

“Did I not dismiss you from this room, Edwards?”

The secretary kept his head bowed as he opened the door wider. “Yes, Your Majesty, you did. However, you also wished to be informed of his arrival.” He offered another apologetic dip of his chin. “Sir Nash Bromley is here.”

Indignance and age-old fury roared in Sophie’s ears, preventing her from hearing another word, even though it was the queen greeting their new guest. Nash Bromley. That arrogant, priggish, self-serving, poor excuse of a churl she should have impaled when they were both at Rydleshire Academy. If her practice sword had been steel rather than wood, she would have relieved this earth of a most insufferable individual and then danced on his grave.

“Sophie!” her mother said in a snappish whisper.

A barely audible chuckle behind her brought Sophie to her feet and made her turn. She clenched her teeth and curtsied, so intent on reining in her grudge over ancient insults and slights that she failed to look up at the man standing before her. Instead, she stared at the floor, concentrating on cooling the angry blush burning her cheeks.

“Sir Nash,” she forced out in a barely civil tone while keeping her gaze downcast.

“Lady Sophie.”

His voice was much deeper than she remembered.

“It is indeed wonderful to see you again after such a long while,” he said. “What has it been, my lady? Ten years?”

Ten years too little, she wanted to snap, but Maman stood close enough to pinch her if she didn’t behave, and she had already made a less-than-desirable impression on Her Majesty.

“It has been some time,” she forced out, then decided to look into the eyes of her arch-nemesis. A gasp almost escaped her.

The arrogant Nash Bromley she had last seen when she was naught but ten and five and he was twenty had been handsome enough to make her young heart yearn for him to be kinder and treat her with the same admiration he offered the older girls. But the man before her was so…changed. She realized her mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

Somehow, he had transformed into an even more striking figure whose dark blue jacket made his broad shoulders appear so wide it was a wonder he didn’t pass through doorways by turning sideways. His legs were no longer tall, gangly sticks but impressively muscular, stretching his snug pantaloons in the best sort of way. All that seemed familiar about him was the shade of his hair—a ripened wheat color that wasn’t really blond, but neither was it auburn. And those eyes. Those were the same too. The iciest blue that had always mocked her and flashed with lightning whenever she had bested him in archery or swordplay. But currently, those piercing eyes gleamed with amusement.

She tipped her chin higher and glared at him. So the abrasive yet handsome cub of twenty had matured into a breathtaking man who could be a god descended from Mount Olympus. What of it? It mattered not to her. He surely had remained the same obnoxious cove.

With an insultingly smug smile, Nash gallantly bowed his head in her direction before turning to her mother and offering a respectful bow. “Lady Rydleshire. If not for your exemplary training, I fear I would not have survived to once again enjoy the pleasure of your company today.”

“Yes, well,” the queen interrupted before Sophie’s mother could respond. “You three shall have plenty of time to reacquaint yourselves with one another.” She tipped a pointed glance at the chairs, and each of them immediately sat. “When I read the word periculum, I foresaw the need to take control of whatever prompted such a message. Sir Nash, you shall take up residence with Lady Rydleshire and Lady Sophie at Rydleshire House in London.”

Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to stop the unreasonable outburst about to break free of her. She consoled herself with the whiteness of the man’s knuckles as he tightened his grip on the arms of his chair. His reaction enabled her to manage a serene, albeit slightly wicked, smile. He didn’t want this any more than she did. Since Her Majesty seemed to hold him in such high regard, maybe he could convince her of the plan’s folly.

“Take up residence at Rydleshire House?” he repeated, leaning forward slightly as if to improve his hearing. “Your Majesty?”

Queen Charlotte smiled, and that was when Sophie knew they were all doomed.

“Remember yourself, Sir Nash,” the queen warned. “Yes. You shall move into their residence this very day.” With another sly smile that chilled Sophie to the bone, the monarch gracefully fluttered her hand at both Sophie and her mother, as if bestowing a regal blessing upon them. “These ladies are two of my dearest friends, and they are in danger. You are to secure their safety and assist them not only in capturing the vile creature wishing to do them harm, but you will also silence that creature forever. Am I quite clear?”

Nash’s squared jaw flexed, revealing to one and all that he sat there gritting his teeth.

The queen hiked a brow. “Well? When your queen asks a question of you, it is in your best interest to answer.”

He jerked his head downward as if trying to nod but suddenly discovered his neck was stuck in place. “My obedience to Your Majesty goes without saying. But to protect these fine ladies with the expediency which I am certain you require, I shall need as many details as possible—and living with them, Your Majesty? Shall I pose as a groom in their stable or as a household servant?”

“You shall not be a servant but an esteemed guest. At least for a little while.” The monarch scooped up her fluffy dogs and cuddled them closer—and then she smiled. Again.

Sophie’s nape tingled, and she knew without a doubt that every tiny hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Another unpleasant regal command was headed her way. The air reeked of it.

The queen eyed the dowager countess smugly, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. “To prevent this issue from ever arising again, the fourth Earl of Rydleshire shall be pronounced expired without an heir, and I shall see to it that Georgie bestows the title upon none other than Sir Nash Bromley, the husband of Lady Sophie—well, the husband as soon as the banns are read.” She paused and tipped her head, as though pondering the details of her plan. “Or should we acquire a special license?” She nodded, slow at first and then a bit faster. “Yes. I would take great pleasure in seeing this over and done with immediately. Edwards will see to it that the archbishop understands my wishes, and the special license shall be ready within days. And do not fear—Georgie will not dare cross me on this. Shall we just say that my inclinations are always honored by him now?” Queen Charlotte appeared uncharacteristically pleased as well as proud. “We should have done this ages ago. Do you not agree, Nia?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The countess reached over and rested her hand on Sophie’s forearm in a silent plea for her to keep quiet.

“But if you proclaim the fourth Earl of Rydleshire dead, Maman and I will be in mourning. How could I possibly marry while in mourning?” Sophie couldn’t breathe, nor could she remain quiet as her mother wished. She would rather endure the queen’s wrath than marry Nash Bromley. She despised the man and knew he felt the same about her. He had to. Why else would he have been such a mean-spirited wretch the entire time they trained at the academy all those years ago? “It might raise questions, Your Majesty. And with a blackmailer already making threats, we risk overplaying our hand.”

The queen kissed each of her pups on the tops of their little heads and returned them to their perches on either side of her. Once again, she sprinkled a bit of snuff on her hand and inhaled it with a long, appreciative sniff. After returning the tiny spoon to the crystal bowl and replacing the silver lid on it with a quiet click, she leveled a stern but still pleased-with-herself gaze on Sophie. “The two of you shall marry before the earl’s death is announced, of course. Do not doubt me, girl. The only thing I have ever left to chance is allowing you and your mother to handle this situation yourselves for the past twenty-five years. It is high time I remedied that. Do you not agree?”

Sophie couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow. All she could do was stare at the queen.

“Do you not agree, Lady Sophie?” the monarch repeated in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Of course she agrees, Your Highness,” Sophie’s mother hurried to say, and gave Sophie’s arm a warning squeeze.

Queen Charlotte slightly narrowed her eyes and slid her gaze to Nash. “And you?”

“Your Majesty,” he began, his deep voice suddenly stricken with a strained raspiness.

“Yes?”

He sucked in a deep breath, scrubbed a hand across his mouth, then deflated with a gusting exhale. After casting a disgruntled look in Sophie’s direction, one she resented and shot right back at him, he bowed his head. “I am ever obedient to you, Your Majesty. As always.”

“Excellent. Today has proven to be just as satisfying as I had hoped.” The queen lifted a silver bell and rang it, causing both her dogs to bark. “Now, now—decorum, Mercury and Phoebe. We must always maintain proper decorum.”

As soon as her secretary opened the door, she gave a nod. “My guests are ready to leave, Edwards. Show them out, then we have much to accomplish and little time in which to accomplish it, so do not dawdle.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Edwards stepped aside and opened the door wider while casting an expectant look Sophie’s way.

She assumed the others were included in his unspoken invitation to leave the premises, but at the moment she didn’t really care. All she knew for certain was that she needed to get out of the queen’s presence so she could scream. With her teeth clenched so tightly that her jaws ached, she rose and gave the monarch a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

Queen Charlotte gave a dismissive nod.

Or, at least, Sophie thought she did. With her mind and emotions in such a turmoil, all she knew for certain was that she needed to escape so she might figure a way to free herself from becoming leg-shackled to the most irritating man in all creation. She snatched up the letters from the blackmailer and stuffed them back into her reticule.

She rushed past Edwards, skimmed down the stairs, and shoved through the door out into the rain, not giving the slightest care if she became soaked to the skin. She ran up the path toward Kew instead of getting into the carriage.

“Sophie!” her mother called out. “Sophie, you must stop this instant!”

A strong hand closed around her arm and, gently but firmly, pulled her to a stop. “Lady Sophie, this is folly. You risk becoming quite ill by running off into the rain.”

“At least then we would both be free of a marriage that neither of us wants.” She yanked her arm free, wishing she had a sword to challenge him to a duel. Everything in her screamed to battle for the world she had worked so hard to protect all these years.

Nash stared down at her, his expression unreadable. “Come back to the carriage. To your mother.”

“No.”

He glanced back at the queen’s cottage, then turned to her again. “Do you want the queen to see you behaving like this?”

“She already thinks I am an unimpressive, mindless spinster. I hardly think I can descend much lower in her esteem.” For the first time that day, Sophie was thankful for the rain. It hid the hot tears streaming down her face. “Leave me in peace, Sir Nash. We may be forced to marry, but that hardly means we must tolerate each other’s company.”

His still-unreadable expression hardened into an irritated scowl. “You forget, my lady. I am charged with ensuring you are kept safe.”

Before she could respond, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain. How dare he! “You will put me down this instant!” She pelted blows across his back, knocked off his hat, pulled his hair, and twisted his ears. She contemplated biting him but decided against it. Instead, she squirmed and battered him with every ounce of rage, insult, and hurt feelings he had ever foisted upon her all those years ago.

Nothing fazed him. He marched back to the carriage and unceremoniously tossed her inside. She landed on her bum in the floor between the seats. Before she scrambled to her feet, he slammed the door, latched it, and banged on the side for the driver to take off.

She fought her way to the window and hung out of it, shaking her fist at him. “I hate you!” she roared. “And I always will!”

He didn’t bother reacting, just marched to his horse after retrieving his hat, mounted up, and followed them.

“That was quite the display,” her mother remarked in a calm tone, as if speaking about the weather.

Flopping back into the seat, Sophie glared at her. “Prepare yourself, Maman. That was only the beginning.”