“Verity! Come and look at this ribbon Clara has gifted me!”
Verity pulled her gaze away from the elegant view of the garden and smiled as she responded to her best friend’s call. Lady Shona sat in the middle of the room, smiling happily amongst gifts and the soft pastels of her friends’ gowns. Her pale skin was flushed with the excitement of her engagement party, her freckles standing out on her rosy cheeks. Verity smiled at seeing her look so happy. She took the blue-ribbon Shona held out to her and immediately tied it into Shona’s light brown curls.
“It is perfect for your eyes,” Verity said sincerely. “You will make the most beautiful bride.”
The other women tittered their agreement. Even though Shona was not the most beautiful woman out in society, she was marrying a man of good standing whom she loved. She glowed with joy and anyone could see it.
“Lord Addington is a lucky man!” Verity squeezed her friend’s shoulder gently.
“My lady? A letter sent express for you.” A finely dressed servant appeared at Verity’s elbow, carrying a tightly folded envelope on a silver platter.
“Who might have sent that?” Shona asked, glancing up from a new set of lace doilies she had been gifted.
“I believe it came from London, my lady.”
Verity heard the curious murmurs of the ladies around her – as the only lady of the party visiting from London, they saw her as something of an exotic bird and a letter sent express was delightful fodder for the gossip mill. Feeling their eyes on her, she smiled politely.
“Excuse me, ladies, it must be from my father.”
She crossed to the privacy of the garden room, standing among the rich green leaves and bright, waxy petals. Her father and stepmother had spent much of the summer season in Bath, hoping the benefit of the healing waters would improve her father’s ailing health. They had only recently returned to London. An express letter so soon could only be bad news. Verity took a deep breath and broke the seal.
Daughter,
Your father’s condition has worsened. I fear he will not see out the week. If you desire to speak with him before he meets the Lord, I suggest you return home post-haste.
Your loving mother,
The marchioness.
Verity crumpled the letter in her hand. It was not from her mother, but her stepmother and it was just like Martina to write such a brief, unfeeling letter. Verity’s true mother had died when she was only a small child, her father was the only family she had left and now ill-health threatened to steal him away too. Without him, she would be alone in the world aside from Martina who, even though she signed her notes as “loving mother,” was incapable of loving anything but the money and title she had achieved in marrying Verity’s father.
Verity glanced back over her shoulder to the crowd of happy young women in the drawing-room. She dearly wanted to share this news with Shona, desperate for her tender understanding and the consolation of her friendship, but propriety held her back. This was an important day for Shona.
Verity knew that being inducted into Bristol society and meeting the female acquaintances of her future husband had been worrying for her. Verity didn’t want to pull her attention away at this crucial time. Instead, she found herself longing for the company of her only other dear friends – the Gladstone brothers. Christian was her closest friend in London and could always be relied on for sound advice, and Jack, well, Verity’s heart skipped a little when she thought of Jack. Charming and handsome, she had always harboured an affection for the older Gladstone brother even though she knew his flirtatious nature meant his sentiments couldn’t be sincere. How she wished he was here now to comfort her. She imagined how relieving it would feel to fall into his arms. But Jack was far away, touring Europe in the company of other young gentlemen, and Christian was in London. She was alone.
Squaring her shoulders, she dropped the hurtful note in a plant pot and turned back to the drawing-room, readying herself to give her apologies and leave. There would be shocked faces, Shona’s veiled disappointment and of course, gossip. She took a steadying breath, blinking against the tears that threatened to rise. She needed to be strong for her father and pray that she would get back in time to see his face one last time.
Chapter Two
Jack watched as an elegant, dark-haired beauty crossed the Spanish steps, her white carousel resting gently on her lace-covered shoulder. She caught his eye, smiling coquettishly from across the water feature until her chaperone hurried her away. Jack kept his eyes on her, waiting for her to glance back over her shoulder for one last smile, as they always did.
“Are you distracted, Gladstone?”
Jack smiled at his friend, shaking his head lightly. “A pair of bright eyes only.”
He tapped the end of his cigar in the glass dish on the table, sinking back into his chair under the awning of Cafe Greco. Jack was used to this type of attention from the ladies, and his tour of Europe had not lessened the glances, smiles and fluttering of fans in his direction. Increasingly, however, he found the process to be less and less rewarding. In fact, more frequently he found his mind turning to the faces of his childhood, the ladies he had grown up with and saw not only as pretty faces but as dear friends, although he was not sure they would see him the same way.
His younger brother, Christian, was the one who had the knack of maintaining meaningful, respectful friendships with ladies. Jack thought with envy of Christian’s close friendship with the charming Lady Verity Huxley, a green-eyed beauty whom Jack had always found arresting. Jack enjoyed her company immensely, looked forward to the way her eyes lit up and cheeks flushed when he complimented her or beat her at cards, but these were superficialities only. It was Christian who had the true knowledge of that lovely girl’s heart. For a moment, he found himself wondering where Verity was right now. He imagined her on one of her long walks with Christian, the sunshine catching her strawberry blonde hair and the lush greenery of the English garden reflected in her emerald eyes. He felt a sudden pang of homesickness.
“Signor? C’è una lettera per te.”
A young Italian waiter placed a silver plate beside him, a small coffee pot and a letter laid out on it. Like many gentlemen travellers in Rome, Jack was bouncing between accommodations with wealthy Italian friends and so used the Cafe Greco as a central post office.
“Grazie.” Jack turned the letter over. With a lurch of his heart, he saw the edging of the envelope was mourners black. He recognised his brother’s seal.
“Another love letter?”
Jack’s friends laughed, nudging each other and glancing curiously at the unopened missive. Jack pushed back his chair abruptly, grinding his cigar into the ashtray.
“Excuse me.”
He set off walking at a rapid pace, leaving his friends and their exclamations behind him. The Roman sun beat against the back of his neck. He knew what this letter would contain, and he couldn’t bear to read it in public. Finally, he found a quiet back street. Holding himself tense with trepidation, he broke his brother’s seal.
Dear brother,
You will know the contents of this letter before you read it, but the dreadful task of giving you this news still falls to me. Our father is dead. Though it was expected, and we can take solace that he is finally at peace with the Lord, I confess myself overwhelmed. It is not only my own grief I feel, but I am saddened to share that the Marquess of Huxley has also passed. It is torturous to see Verity’s suffering at the loss of a beloved father. Only we, brother, can truly know how she feels. It would be my greatest wish to tell you that you could continue your European tour, but it is impossible. Mother demands that you must return and take control of the estate and assume your rightful place as the Duke of Sussex.
I hope that this letter finds you quickly, and you can return in time for Father’s funeral. I will anxiously await your arrival. There are many preparations to be made.
Your loving brother,
Christian
Jack watched the ink blur and run against the paper, and realised tears were sliding off his nose. His father was dead, and his days of freedom and exploration were over. He must go home and take up the mantle of his Dukedom and all the responsibility that came with it. He could already feel the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders and his mind filled with all the questions he should have asked his father about managing their land and tenants. Now they would never have those conversations. He was alone.
He took a heavy breath and wiped his eyes on the rough wool of his coat sleeve. He would not be alone for long. His brother was at home, and his mother too, and they would give him the support and comfort he craved. A small voice in the back of his head cut through his grief and reminded him Verity Huxley was also at home. She was mourning too, and with the loss of her only family would undoubtedly be looking to Christian to provide the necessary support, which meant there was a chance that Jack might see her. Just to look at her face, to see that sparkling joyful smile would surely lessen the darkness that seemed to shroud him. Jack found his heart slightly lighter at the prospect.
Chapter Three
Verity stood as quietly as her maid, Trudy gently did up the pearl buttons of her mourning dress. She stared at herself in the long mirror, as if she were watching a doll. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back severely so that her black mourning veil could be pinned securely. Her black dress was a heavy velvet, unlike the light cotton and muslin that was so fashionable nowadays. It made her look pale and wan. She could barely recognise herself.
“Are you alright, miss?” Trudy murmured, squeezing Verity’s arm.
“I will be fine.”
She wouldn’t be. Today was the day of the funeral. Verity had not been able to see her father before he passed away. She had stumbled from the carriage after a non-stop ride from Bristol, torn into the Huxley townhouse like a tornado only to be confronted by the impassive face of her stepmother.
“You are too late,” she had said, carelessly, ignoring Verity’s strangled cry. “You shouldn’t have gone to Bristol.”
As always, Martina had no thought for how her words might impact Verity and turned away from her brimming tears and devastated face to return to her sewing without another word. Since then, the two women had kept a wide berth from one another. The Marchioness had been spending most of her time with her daughter from her first marriage, Lady Daniella Law, whom Verity always found intimidating because of her beauty and aloof manner. In looks she took after her mother, sharing the sharp, red hair and flawless skin that Martina flaunted around London.
According to Trudy, Martina and Daniella had been seen at several public functions since her father’s death and although they both wore the appropriate mourning black and seemed subdued, Verity felt the insult to her father’s memory that they were out in society again so soon. Verity, by comparison, had been unable to face any callers. Flowers and food had been delivered every day, but whilst Martina took the gifts immediately, Verity squirrelled away the cards and handwritten notes and wept over their kind words in her bedchamber. It had taken more strength than she had to get out of bed this morning and prepare for one of the worst days of her life. The only solace she could take was that Christian would be in attendance at the funeral. She needed a friendly face to get her through.
“Verity, we need to have a little talk.”
Verity turned to see her stepmother standing in the doorway to her dressing room, holding an enormous peacock fan. It matched the gold and black stitching on her skirt. It was shockingly inappropriate for a funeral.
“Yes, mother?”
Verity’s voice always caught painfully on the word “mother.” For her father’s sake, she had always complied, but it pained her to say it. Martina’s eyes were like chips of blue ice, narrowing slightly as she noticed the catch in Verity’s tone.
“I am afraid we have a small problem, my dear. I found this in your father’s things. I’m afraid it has rather shone a bright light on some dark doings that impact you.”
Martina smiled and pulled a small, leather-bound journal from behind her back. Trudy gasped. Verity instantly recognised it as her father’s diary. It was incredibly private, had been kept in a locked drawer of his desk and only he had kept the key. He had always told Verity that, upon his death, the diary was supposed to be burnt without being read. Martina knew this, Verity was sure of it.
“You – you read it?” Verity stared at Martina.
“Well of course,” Martina flipped indolently through the pages. “Your father was my husband.”
“But – but he wanted it burned, you know he did -,”
“And with good reason, it seems. He had many secrets to keep, especially concerning your mother.”
“My mother?” Verity stared at Martina, flexing her fingers to control her rage. “I do not think you should speak of my mother, Martina.”
Martina clearly noticed the change in Verity’s address. She stood a little straighter.
“I can speak of her as I like. I am your father’s widow, I can speak of any part of his life as I wish. You are nothing.”
“I am his daughter!” Verity exclaimed.
“Well, perhaps not.” Martina waved the journal. “It is suggested here that your mother, the woman he always spoke of as such a saint, may have been unfaithful.”
Verity’s head was spinning. She felt Trudy’s firm, comforting grip on her elbow, silently supporting and holding her up in the face of such terrible accusations. She could not think about this now, she could not consider the idea that the man she had grown up with, loved and cherished might not be her father. She needed to be strong in the face of Martina’s malice.
“This is hearsay,” Verity’s voice shook with rage. “Why you should desire to make it known is beyond me, for it will only damage our families-,”
“It is not only hearsay, and I have little concern for your life since you are likely a bastard child and are owed nothing.” Martina’s eyes glittered with hate. “Your father has recorded more than his own suspicions. He includes in here a letter between your mother and her lover, no doubt that he uncovered and wept over since he loved her so. Why else should he have kept you?”
Because he loved me, Verity thought silently, I know he did. She knew that those words would only enrage Martina, who although had been treated well by her father, had not been loved in the same way Verity had.
“Do you think you will be untainted if you make this – this slander known publicly?” Verity tried to reason. “You rely on the good name of my father, why would you make designs against it?”
“Because I have a need of you, Verity, and I know you are headstrong underneath your innocence. I believe a promise of my silence on these matters will engender your compliance.”
“What could you possibly need of me that you would threaten these – these dreadful things?”
“You must marry by the end of the season.”
Martina’s demand seemed to fill the room, resoundingly painful and crashing over Verity like a wave. She could say nothing. There was no need anyway, for Verity instantly understood what Martina wanted. If Verity married, she would forfeit her entire claim on her father’s estate. Everything would go to Martina. In the absence of the Marquess’ full devotion, she was clearly determined to possess what was left of him completely.
“I understand.” Verity turned away from her stepmother, trying not to blink so as to hold the tears back.
“You will be married by the end of the season?”
“And you will keep my parents’ secrets. Yes, we are understood. Now,” Verity nodded for Trudy to bring her veil. “Please excuse me. I must prepare for my father’s funeral.”
“Of course, dear.” Martina’s pleasant and charming exterior had clipped back into place. “Take your time.”
As soon as the door shut, Trudy threw her arms around Verity, crushing her in a bone-breaking hug.
“Oh, mistress! You – you were so composed, she – she -,” Trudy dashed a hand across her face, wiping tears. “She is a beast of a woman to say such things to you!”
“I know, Trudy.”
Verity disentangled herself from Trudy, biting her lip to control her stormy emotions. She dearly wanted to collapse into her maid’s arms and weep, but she knew the funeral carriage with the dark horses and their black-feathered plumes were waiting on the road downstairs. There was a mahogany coffin laden with white carnations lying solemnly somewhere, waiting to be interred. Today was the day she would bury her father, and now she needed to find a husband.
“What will you do, Miss?”
“I don’t know.” Verity adjusted her veil. “I – I will have to accept an offer, I suppose.”
In the last year, she knew her father had been approached multiple times with offers from well-known London gentlemen for her hand in marriage.
Trudy frowned. “Your father did not feel any of those gentlemen were worthy of you.”
“Their worthiness is immaterial when considered against Martina’s threat,” Verity flipped her veil down, glad to be able to hide her face. “I will not let her diminish my parents’ memories this way.”
Verity tried to push away the thought that her father might not be her father and pulled on her black lace gloves.
“Well, what of Lord Gladstone?”
“Jack?” Verity’s heart skipped a beat to mention his name.
“No, the younger Lord Gladstone not the new Duke of Sussex.” Trudy held out the cropped, black jacket for Verity to wear. “He cares for you tenderly. I am sure he would be open to an …arrangement.”
Verity slid her arms into the jacket and let Trudy button it, considering her words. Christian was her closest friend in London now that Shona had settled into life in Bristol. The idea that he might love her was out of the question. Christian had never given her any signs that what he felt for her was more than brotherly affection, but he was a true friend and would help her if she needed him.
“Trudy, run down and tell them I will need five minutes more. Tell them I am looking for the handkerchief father gave me.”
Trudy nodded, curtsey and left. Verity crossed to her writing desk and set pen to paper. Her hand was shaking so badly, the nib scratched and jumped so that the ink spurted on the page. The idea of throwing herself on the charity of a friend in order to secure a marriage was incredibly embarrassing to her. With each word she wrote, she felt her dream of falling in love, courting, receiving a proposal and marrying the perfect gentleman disintegrated. In its place, she tried to rationalise a happy life with her best friend as her husband. They would love each other, of course, and he would be kind to her, but there would be no romance between them. Yet it would surely be better than the humiliation of being called a bastard child and turned out of society. Still, as Verity signed her note requesting an audience with him and wrote Christian’s title on the front, she imagined what it would be like if she were addressing this note to Jack instead. For a brief moment, she felt a soft flicker of joy. She closed her eyes and shook her head sharply. This was not the time for dreams. Her father was dead, her stepmother had no care for her and the burden of protecting her family’s honour was on her shoulders alone. Now was the time for practicality. She sealed the letter, slipped it into her pocket and put all thoughts of love from her mind.
