Chapter One

“Thomas!” Marco screamed, staring through the blaze of fire around him, tears streaming and throat burning. “Thomas, where are you?”

“Sir!” A frantic voice called back, thin and reedy through the smoke. “I am trapped, sir!”

Marco tied his handkerchief around his face and fought through the thick smoke of his burning factory, forcing himself to keep moving despite his lungs screaming to run out into the fresh air. He saw with horror that a large wooden beam had fallen across the door to the office. Marco launched forward, desperately using all of his strength to pull the beam away. The wood was burning hot, and splinters lodged into his palms, but Marco gritted his teeth and prayed to God that he could save his friend. With a strength he didn’t know he had, he pulled the heavy beam away and wrenched the office door open. When he crossed the threshold, he almost gasped in shock. It seemed that the office had been close to the blast’s epicenter, and his long-time foreman, Thomas Cromer, was curled on the floor, his clothes blackened and his face red and bloody with gashes and horrible burns. Half of his hair seemed to have been singed away.

“Sweet Jesus,” Marco muttered, dropping to his knees. His foreman looked in his direction with bloodied and swollen eyes.

“I cannot see, sir,” Thomas coughed in a gravelly voice. “My eyes…”

Marco’s heart clenched for his friend and faithful worker, a man who he’d relied upon to be his eyes on the factory floor. Marco’s factory was burning around them, and Thomas was gravely injured, perhaps even blinded. Marco felt despair building inside him but pushed it away. They needed to get out of the building before the roof collapsed.

“Thomas, I am here,” Marco said, pressing his hands to Thomas’s chest to try to staunch the flow of blood. “We must get out of here.”

“God bless you, sir,” Thomas groaned, heaving himself to a seated position with a cry of pain. Thomas heard a menacing creak in the ceiling beams above them and knew they had no time to lose.

“Forgive me, Thomas,” Marco said as he swept his friend up and tossed him over his shoulder. Thomas let out a gurgling groan, but Marco knew they had to get out quickly. He steadied Thomas’ body and lurched through the factory, blinking away tears from the smoke. Reaching the factory yard, Marco gasped in breaths of the fresher air. He saw men gathered all around, throwing buckets of water through broken windows in a desperate attempt to save the building.

“A physician!” Marco croaked as loudly as he could, lowering Thomas onto the ground some distance from the blaze. “Someone send for a physician at once!”

“Right away!” one of workers shouted, racing away.

Thomas’s head lolled against the cobbled stones, slick with a dirty muck of fallen ash mixed with mud and water from the buckets.

“Do not trouble yourself, sir,” Thomas coughed. Marco was horrified to see blood around his friend’s lips, and he sent up another desperate prayer for Thomas to survive. “I must tell you what happened.”

“Not now,” Marco said. “Save your strength, my friend.”

“You have to know. This was no accident, sir,” Thomas coughed again, clutching his bloody chest. The man fumbled in his coat pocket as his body shuddered.

Accidents were not uncommon in a cotton factory. No matter how careful the workers were, sometimes disaster struck. There was always the danger of fire with the materials being so flammable. Marco would not blame his foreman for that.

“I’ll get it.” Marco reached into Thomas’ pocket; the wool of his jacket scorched and bloody. Marco pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment and opened it. The handwriting was somehow familiar despite the block lettering designed to conceal any identifiable features. The words were simple but menacing: THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE.

“Another threat, sir,” Thomas whispered, his voice becoming weaker by the minute. Still, he kept going. “I read it… before I could do anything, there was a… a terrible explosion.”

Marco looked down at Thomas’s battered body as the man struggled for breath. He remembered the first time his foreman had come to him with a hostile letter.

“You have received a threat, sir,” Thomas said as Marco strolled into the factory office, closing the door, so the sound of the cotton spinners’ work did not disturb them.

“A threat?” Marco asked and was quickly reminded of his cousin, Giovanni, who worked closely with Silas Klane, also known as Lucifer of London. Giovanni regularly incurred threats against himself and his family, especially since becoming the Marquess of Bath. Marco had anticipated reuniting with his cousin would impact him, but he had not expected to be in danger. “Against my life?”

“No, sir, against your business,” Thomas replied. He handed over a piece of parchment with the message, “CLOSE YOUR FACTORY OR I SHALL BE FORCED TO TAKE ACTION. YOU WILL REGRET IT IF YOU IGNORE MY DEMAND” boldly printed on it.

“Who could have sent this?” Marco asked in consternation. “How was it delivered?” 

“I do not know, sir,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “The note was tacked to the door when I arrived this morning.”

“Would you care to speculate?” Marco asked, looking at the lettering carefully. The author had obviously taken pains to disguise their handwriting. He wondered if that meant he would recognize their actual hand. The thought was disturbing.

“You have many competitors, sir. Your business flourishes, but …” Thomas hesitated, looking toward the windows as if he wondered if they may be overheard. “There is one man in particular who may resent your success.”

“Name him,” Marco demanded.

“The Duke of Fitzroy,” Thomas said. Marco groaned inwardly. The Duke of Fitzroy was not known to him, but the mere fact that he was a duke would make confronting him more difficult should he prove to be behind the threats. 

“Tell me of him,” Marco said quietly, sitting opposite Thomas, who sat behind his desk. 

“His seat is near here. He owns many of the farms that surround us. He has heavily invested in a factory a few miles away. I believe he has been upset about the success of your business. More specifically, that you offer your workers higher wages,” Thomas said. “You are besting him in profits and popularity as it is well known that you treat your employees fairly.”

“Yet he is a duke, and I am merely a businessman,” Marco muttered. “If he chooses to hurt me, I cannot possibly bring action against him, especially if he does not sign his name to his threats.” 

“You are more than a simple businessman, sir. Your cousin is the Marquess of Bath,” Thomas said. “And your uncle is the Duke of Grasmere.” 

“That is true, but it means nothing. I cannot ask them to involve themselves,” Marco sighed.

“Then I shall keep an eye on it, sir,” Thomas said. “No one will stop your business from flourishing. I shall ensure it.”

Marco stood and handed the piece of paper back to Thomas.

“I trust you with this, Thomas. Let me know if anything changes or the Duke makes his identity known.” 

“He’s finally slipped up, sir,” Thomas wheezed, pulling Marco out of his memory. His breathing was becoming more shallow, and pain was etched on his face. Macro saw with growing fear that more blood oozed from his mouth as he coughed. “I saw it… just before the blast… the seal.”

Marco turned the paper over. There was indeed a broken seal on the letter when there had never been one on the threats before. The Duke of Fitzroy’s coat of arms was clearly visible in the red wax.

“The bastard,” Marco whispered, brushing his fingers against the seal. A violent fury rose within him at the carnage the Duke had wrought over his petty concerns.

“We now…. have proof, sir,” Thomas whispered hoarsely. His bloody hands groped blindly for Marco’s. Marco took his hands within his as gently as he could, wincing at the raw, burned skin on the backs of them. “You have him now.”

“I will make him pay for this, Thomas. Pay for the pain he has caused you,” Marco said fiercely.

Thomas gripped Marco’s hand for a moment, then his eyes dipped closed, and his hands went slack. Marco feared if the man went to sleep, he would never wake.

“Don’t close your eyes, Thomas,” Marco begged, squeezing Thomas’ hand again. “You need to stay with me, my friend. I need you.” He felt tears prick his eyes as Thomas’ remained closed.

The blaze nearby intensified, becoming a roar that seemed to eat up all the air around it. But Marco did not care as he watched Thomas struggle to breathe. “Where is the damned doctor?” he yelled.

One of Marco’s workers ran over to him. “Mr. Alegria, we must go!” He gestured to the blaze. The fire burned uncontrollably and licked at the bricks, reaching up to the roof. “The building is going to collapse. We need to move, sir!”

Marco saw that he was right. The building would not stand for much longer; if they stayed where they were, they would be in the path of the burning debris when it fell. “Help me carry him!” Marco yelled back.

He grasped Thomas’s limp body under his arms as the other man took his legs. Together they carried Thomas into a field where the other workers had gathered, watching the blaze in horror. They set Thomas onto the grass, and Marco ordered the other man to ensure no one else was near the building as more workers and villagers arrived to help. But there was nothing to be done but watch as the fire raged. Marco knelt next to his fallen friend and held his hand as the man took his last labored breaths.

“You will be avenged, Thomas. I swear it,” Marco whispered as he folded Thomas’s arms across his now-still chest.

“Father!” William, a boy barely seventeen and Thomas’ eldest son, ran through the crowd and dropped to the ground next to Thomas. “Father!”

“I am so sorry, William. He is gone,” Marco said, unable to stop his voice from breaking.

The words caused the boy to cry out in anguish, and Marco held him as William screamed his grief. The boy’s slim frame was wracked with sobs that Marco felt to his very soul.

“How did this happen, sir?” William asked when he had calmed a bit, his expression fierce.

“Sabotage,” Marco growled before he could stop himself.

“What do you mean?” William demanded any deference to Marco’s position he had previously shown gone. And Marco did not begrudge the boy his anger. “This was not an accident?”

“No. It was no accident. Your father warned me of a rival, but we did not think anything like this could happen. Did not think anyone would do something so sinister. You know your father was not just my faithful servant, William, he was my friend, and I have failed him. I am so sorry.”

The young boy’s face crumpled again when he saw Marco’s despair. He turned back to his father and placed a hand against his cheek. “Oh, Papa. I promise I’ll take care of mother and the others.” William’s tears fell onto his father’s bloody face.

Marco looked down at Thomas’ face and thought of the kind-hearted man who helped him build his factory and make it a success. He could not imagine rebuilding without Thomas at his side. He closed his eyes briefly and said a silent goodbye to the man who had worked so hard for him over the years. Who had mentored him and treated him more like a son than an employer. He again swore he would have his revenge.

William stood then and swiped his sleeve across his eyes. Marco stood next to him as they both watched the fire burn.

“I offer myself to you, Mr. Alegria,” William said, his voice hardening with conviction. “I will do anything you ask. Anything that needs to be done to make this right. It is what my father would want.”

Marco saw a glimmer of Thomas’ grit in William’s determined face. Now that Thomas was gone, the Cromer family would depend on William to support them. The best way Marco could honor his old friend was to offer his son a place. He had no doubt that the boy would prove to be strong and resilient, just like his father.

“I accept your offer, William. But first, you must take your father home and grieve. I will come to you as soon as I can,” Marco said, putting his hand on the boy’s slender shoulder.

William’s chin wobbled, but he nodded firmly. Marco turned to the men who were standing respectfully back. They held their caps in their hands, sad expressions on their faces as they looked at the body of their beloved manager. “Can some of you please assist young William in bringing his father home?”

“We’d be honored, sir,” they muttered. Those closest bent down and lifted Thomas reverently in their arms.

William watched the men begin the slow procession across the fields. Before following, he turned to Marco and bowed. Marco returned the gesture as fresh tears stung his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” William said. Then he turned and followed his father’s body.

It pained him to see such a young lad have to step into his father’s shoes. But Marco reminded himself that he and his cousin were already fending for themselves by William’s age. And they didn’t have someone like himself to help them. Marco vowed to teach the boy all he could. He would never be able to repay all that Thomas had done for him, but he would look out for his son and ensure he had a good start in life. It was the least he could do.

“Marco!” a man cried out.

Marco turned at the sound of his cousin’s voice. Giovanni slowed his horse and dismounted quickly. One of Marco’s workers took the reins and led the horse away, lest the blaze frighten it into bolting.

“What has happened?” Giovanni demanded, staring at the burning building.

“Sabotaggio,” Marco spat, reverting to his native Italian in his anger. Giovani’s eyes widened, and he cursed viciously, which Marco found oddly comforting.

He drew his cousin away from the crowd so they could speak privately. He did not know how the fire started, but he worried that the Duke of Fitzroy had manipulated one of his employees to cause it.

“I am sorry, cousin,” Giovanni said earnestly. The despair in his tone was enough to tear down the last of Marco’s composure.

“It is all gone. Years of hard work. Gone,” Marco whispered, swallowing his pain as the fire burst through the building’s roof. “And Thomas. My friend, he is…”

Marco found he could no longer speak and pressed his palm over his mouth, not wanting to appear weak in front of his men. Giovanni stood beside him and gripped his shoulder tightly in support.

“You will rebuild. You will be stronger,” Giovanni said fiercely. “You can overcome this, Marco, and I will be by your side.”

At that moment, there was a great creaking, drawing Marco’s attention back to the building. The factory collapsed in a roar of bricks and wood as the fire finally consumed the structure. The gathered crowd let out a cry of sadness. Marco felt hopelessness descend on him as all his dreams seemed to fall under the rubble.

His cousin’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and he fingered the wax seal on the letter in his pocket. A calm pressed upon him as one thought solidified inside his mind: I will have my revenge against the man who has taken everything from me. I will take everything he holds dear and crush him for what he has done.

Chapter Two

Alice paced along the marble floor of the Duke of Fitzroy’s entry hall, doing short laps across the black and white squares at the bottom of the stairs. The old Duke, as everyone below stairs called him, had been unwell for the last week and was quite likely dying. Her mother, the housekeeper, was beside herself, but Alice had busied herself to her usual work as the cook’s help in the kitchen and was relatively unaffected. Yet this afternoon, her mother had disappeared from her post for hours, and Alice had just been summoned upstairs. The butler had told her to wait, so Alice did, pacing and worrying about what might be happening. Alice knew her mother had been engaging in an illicit affair with the old Duke for years. She hoped her mother’s indiscretion was not going to get them sacked. Alice did not know what they would do if the Duke turned them out of the house, and she knew her mother would be utterly heartbroken if he abandoned her.

“He is ready for you,” the butler said, standing at the top of the stairs. Alice was astonished by the idea that the Duke would want to see her. She had imagined he would have the butler dismiss them. Yet Alice knew she was his to command, as a servant in his household, and she could not disobey. She brushed the flour residue off her apron. She nodded politely, climbing the stairs, and feeling conscious of her worn shoes on the beautiful walnut stairs. She had never been in the family rooms of the manor. Though her mother had climbed the back stairs almost every night for as long as Alice could remember. She felt horribly exposed as she was led along a beautifully decorated corridor until they finally arrived at a highly polished oak door. Alice’s stomach lurched when she realized it was the door to the Duke’s bed chamber. She was confused but obediently stepped forward when the butler opened the door and entered.

“Miss Proctor to see you, Your Grace,” the butler intoned, holding the door open.

“Thank you,” the old Duke rasped. Alice was disturbed to see that he was reclining in bed and even more surprised to see her mother seated next to him. After all, it was one thing for her mother to have been his secret lover all these years. It was quite another for him to openly have her by his bedside. The old Duke’s face was wan and thin, his chest heaving with each breath. She noticed that her mother held one of his hands on the coverlet. Alice stood at the end of the bed and felt a sudden rush of awkwardness. She dropped her head and dipped into a proper curtsey even though her mind was racing.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she uttered, trying not to meet her mother’s eye. She didn’t understand how to behave in this situation. Her mother was at the Duke’s bedside as if she was his duchess. He wasn’t treating her like a woman who had once been his late wife’s lady’s maid. His seduction of that maid may have helped elevate her to the housekeeper position, but she was still just a low-born servant, not the lady of the house.

“Thank you for coming, Alice. Please take a seat,” the old Duke said, gesturing to the empty chair at his bedside, near her mother. Alice shuffled uncomfortably. As a servant in the house, the rules dictated that she could not sit in the Duke’s presence. Yet he had asked her, and she could not disobey a command. Without meaning to, she caught her mother’s eye.

“Take a seat, darling,” her mother said gently, with a soft smile. Alice nodded and sat down at the Duke’s bedside. His eyes followed her, and Alice could see how they were yellowed at the edges. The cook seemed correct in her suspicions – the Duke appeared to be dying. He took an unsteady breath and turned his head to fully look at her.

“Alice,” he began, his voice croaking. It was bizarre for Alice to hear her employer call her by her name. He had rarely spoken to her directly before. “I have things I must say before I die, and time is now of the essence.”

“I am at your service, Your Grace,” Alice said awkwardly. It was surreal to sit there, listening to the Duke speak frankly about his coming death while he held the hand of his long-time lover. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears and Alice felt sorry for her. She knew her mother genuinely loved the man. His loss would be difficult for her even without the uncertainty of her future position in the household his death would cause.

“No, please. You do not need to use my honorific,” the Duke said. Alice tried not to show her amazement. She looked up at her mother, unsure what she should do, but her mother only smiled tremulously.

“It is all right, my dear,” her mother said, though Alice didn’t think it could be.

Alice nodded, thinking that she had never felt so uneasy. How could she possibly navigate such a strange situation? She was sitting with the man who had single-handedly ruined her childhood. Everyone in the Duke of Fitzroy’s household knew of his affair with his housekeeper. As a result, Alice had been ostracized by the other servants for as long as she could remember. The staff either resented her mother’s position or looked down upon her for having inappropriate relations with the Duke. These feelings trickled down to Alice. Her lot in life didn’t improve until the duchess passed away about six years ago, and Alice had won the respect of the cook during the elaborate funeral preparations. Being the cook’s assistant had given her a modicum of power that she had relished. She could not imagine how the other servants would react if they knew she was at the duke’s bedside.

“I have made many mistakes, and I must make them right, even if it has been too long in coming,” The Duke whispered. Alice wondered if he was speaking about her mother and his mistake in making her his lover.

“We all make mistakes, my love, but you are rectifying them now, and that is what matters,” her mother murmured. Alice almost reeled back in shock to hear such an endearment from her mother’s lips. While she knew her mother loved the Duke, she never understood why the woman allowed the affair to continue for so many years. Unless it was to secure their continued employment. But Alice had never felt like that was worth the damage to their reputations. She hated that their livelihood was attached to the whim of the man using her mother for his own pleasure. She always felt it would be better to have a lower position in another household and be respected than to stay there and be scorned. But her mother was too much in love to leave, no matter how much her daughter begged.

“I have been unkind. I have made decisions that have destroyed the joy of others, but I hope that I leave this earth at least making one thing right,” the Duke said. He leaned his head against the pillow and looked at Alice. She was surprised to see tears welling in his weak eyes. She had no idea what to say, for how could she comfort him? He had a ruthless reputation. It was one of the reasons Alice had always been so frustrated with her mother’s decision to continue their relationship. Alice had never once looked at the Duke of Fitzroy and seen anything in him that was worthy of admiration.

“It is… important to make amends for past wrongs,” Alice said hesitantly, feeling as if they were both waiting for her to say something. Surely a clergyman should be here to hear his confessions and not the daughter of his mistress.

“Yes it is,” the Duke sighed and looked toward her mother. “And as part of doing that, I have finally married your mother, Alice.”

Alice simply stared unblinking at the absurd announcement. Her mind turned back to when she was younger. When she first learned that the gentleman her mother had been in love with for so long was, in fact, their master, Alice had entertained immature ideas of a new life. She thought the Duke would abandon his wife and marry her mother. That she and her mother would live above stairs and be blissfully happy. That she might have a real father. Of course, these childish fantasies were swiftly dashed by the reality of their world. A duke had his duchess for status and appearances and his mistress for pleasure. It was then that Alice understood men’s selfishness and the world’s cruelty to women. She was brought back to the present when her mother began speaking.

“The Bishop of Coventry, an old friend of the Duke’s, came today with a special license and performed the ceremony before witnesses,” her mother said gently. Seeing the look of incredulity on her daughter’s face, she added, “We are indeed married, Alice.”

“Should have done it years ago,” the duke coughed out, his face turning red with the effort to speak. “But at least now you will both be able to live the lives you deserve.”

What does that mean? Alice wondered, unable to process his words. She couldn’t fathom what other life a servant could deserve than the one they led.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Alice?” her mother gushed. “Finally, we can be together, as we always should have been.”

Alice smiled tightly. Of course, she knew that she should be happy for her mother. She was now the Duchess of Fitzroy, if even for a short time. After the Duke passed, she would presumably be looked after by whoever the Duke’s heir turned out to be, as he had no son she had no idea who that could be. But Alice could only think of the notoriety this action would bring them. They would be shunned by both the servants they had once worked with and the ton alike. Society would never accept a former lady’s maid within their ranks, no matter how lofty her title now was. They would not belong to either world.

“You do not seem pleased, Alice,” the Duke whispered, fixing his eyes on her with shrewdness.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Alice stammered, fiddling with her fingers in her lap. “I am, of course, happy for my mother. She has cared for you for so long that this development is indeed wonderful for her. But I hope you will forgive me for saying that it does not truly have anything to do with me.”

“Alice,” her mother said. She looked supremely uncomfortable but took a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you.”

“Something that we must tell you,” the Duke added and gently squeezed her mother’s hand. Alice felt a sense of trepidation rising up through her. She felt the sudden urge to stand up and flee the room so that she might avoid whatever they were about to say next. She was unprepared for further life-changing announcements. Yet she could not move.

“Alice, do you remember what I told you about your father?” her mother asked. Alice’s heart lurched, and beads of perspiration began to form at her temples.

“You have only said that he was a naval officer and died at sea shortly after I was born,” Alice said mechanically. She simply repeated the only story she had ever been told when she asked about her father. She clenched her hands in her lap, knowing that whatever happened next would shatter that illusion of her parentage.

“I lied,” her mother said shortly, wanting to get the confession out. “I am sorry. I know that lying to you about your father was an unforgivable sin, but I didn’t feel I had any choice.”

Alice did not know if the lie was unforgivable, but she sensed that this was not the worst part of her mother’s confession. She sat immobile. Helpless to stop what would happen next. Only her eyes, darting between her mother and Duke, showed her growing distress.

“It did not give you a choice, Esther,” the Duke whispered. “I forced your hand, and for that, I am sorry. I should have done better by you both.” Alice’s mother brought her hand up to the Duke’s cheek, and they gazed into one another’s eyes for a moment.

“Why was I lied to?” Alice demanded, drawing their attention back to her. She did not want to hear the answer, but she knew it was inevitable. A wave of rage welled up inside her. Her mother had been lying to her for her entire life, and the Duke had forced her to. This was just one more confirmation that men were vile creatures who only cared about themselves.

“Because your grandfather would have cut your father off had he known of your existence,” her mother whispered.

‘Why would he do that?”

“Because the family was of high status,” Alice’s mother said.

Alice pursed her lips, her anger bleeding through. Her grandfather was another man who believed his sex and birth entitled him to trifle with the lives of those he considered beneath him.

When she looked at her mother, she could feel a revelation veering toward her at high speed, like a carriage rolling off the road in the rain, and she was powerless to stop it. Tears were slipping down the woman’s cheeks, yet Alice could find no way to lessen her outrage. She turned her angry expression upon the Duke, almost daring him with her eyes to be the one to speak the truth. “Who?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“The previous Duke of Fitzroy,” the Duke whispered. “My father.”

“So you are my father,” Alice blurted out and stared at him. The ramifications of this revelation were staggering. If she had not been seated, she surely would have lost her footing.

“I am,” he whispered. “I am so sorry that I did not acknowledge you, Alice. More sorry than you can ever know.”

It was suddenly too much to bear. Alice did not care if he was dying or if he was now her mother’s husband. She did not care that he held even more power over her than he did before. Her fury was incandescent.

“You say I am your child, yet I have spent my life toiling as a servant in your household,” Alice said. She was shaking with indignation. “And you continued to employ my mother after forcing her to bear a child out of wedlock like she was nothing but a courtesan. No, worse than that. You did not even give her the benefits of a real mistress. You did not set her up in a lovely house in London. Did not give her fine jewels or clothes. Did not even give her the opportunity to find a new protector if you ever tired of her. You kept her trapped here under your own roof, condemned to a life of drudgery and disdain simply for your own enjoyment.”

“Alice do not say such things!” her mother admonished.

“No, my dear, do not scold her. She has a right to her anger,” the Duke rasped, squeezing her mother’s hand. He looked at Alice with a broken expression on his face that startled her. “Alice, you must understand that I have never loved anyone but your mother. I tried to protect her as best I could under the circumstances. I know that I failed you both. I was wrong not to stand up to my father, but I am trying to make up for it by doing this.”

“Doing what?” Alice asked. She struggled to understand how the Duke felt he had protected her mother or her. Where was he when her mother was called a whore? When she had to endure the advances of the male staff and visiting nobleman who believed she should lift her skirts for them since she did it so obligingly for her master? Where was he when Alice was called cruel names and pushed around, sometimes physically, because she was nothing but the daughter of a common doxy?

“As you know, I have no other children,” the Duke said. “You and your mother will have an abundant inheritance upon my death. More than enough to live the life of luxury you should have had all along. I have also petitioned the crown and have been awarded a special dispensation. Your firstborn son will inherit my title, Alice. He will become the next Duke of Fitzroy with all that entails.”

“It is so generous, my darling,” her mother said, sniffing and wiping her tears away with a handkerchief.

Alice felt as if she could not speak. The idea of becoming an heiress was ludicrous. Would she now be launched into the world of society like a whey-faced debutante? The idea was so overwhelming she suddenly lost some of her anger to an intense queasiness. And her son, were she ever to have one, would be a duke. She could not think of anything she could wish for less. It was untenable to think that her child would ascend to the title of the man who had ruined her mother and left her to serve in his kitchens.

“I know it is not enough to make up for my mistakes,” the Duke said, his eyes fixing longingly on Alice’s face as if he hoped she would contradict him. “I have wronged you both, but I hope this action will help earn some forgiveness.”

“It is enough, my love,” her mother said desperately, grasping her new husband’s hand. “Isn’t it, dear Alice? It is more than enough.”

Nothing could be further from the truth in Alice’s mind, but she saw the pleading expression on her mother’s face and could not contradict her.

Despite the whirlwind of fear, fury, and despair inside of her, Alice could never knowingly cause her mother pain. Holding her breath tightly and not trusting herself to speak, Alice looked at the old Duke, at her father, and nodded curtly.

“Thank you, my child,” the Duke whispered, reaching his other hand for hers. Alice let him take it, feeling numb, noticing absently how cold and papery his skin felt. “Now, some people are coming to meet you both this evening. They will help you acclimate to your new positions in the coming days.”

Alice again nodded. She had no idea what would be expected of her from now on, but she knew she would do her best for her mother’s sake. The new Duchess would need her daughter’s support, and Alice promised herself that she would do anything she had to do to help her mother.

Over the next few weeks, Alice was given accelerated lessons in deportment and etiquette and was tasked with learning the names and titles of the peerage. It was a daunting task, but Alice threw herself into her studies. She didn’t want this new life suddenly thrust upon her, but she was determined to make her mother proud.

Her mother was allowed to skip such lessons as she had been a lady’s maid and possessed the pertinent knowledge already. She spent almost all of her time at the Duke’s side, only leaving it for fittings with the dressmaker who made frequent trips to the manor or for the few callers she received as the new Duchess. Alice was forced to endure the countless fittings for her new wardrobe as well. As she was not considered ‘out’ to society, she could forego the awkward encounters with the curious nobility, which was a welcome blessing.

However, she had to make time to visit the old Duke. His health was failing rapidly, and her mother begged her to spend time with her father before it was too late. Towards the end of his life, these visits mainly consisted of Alice sitting by his bedside and listening to his labored breaths while her mother sat beside her, quietly telling her stories of her relationship with the Duke. Alice suspected that most of these tales had been romanticized in her mother’s mind to make them more palatable. Still, Alice held her tongue and listened dutifully.

One morning some eight weeks after Alice learned of her parentage, the Duke had lapsed into unconsciousness. She and her mother had been summoned by the physician immediately. They sat vigil by his side well into the evening. A storm raged outside as Alice watched a ragged breath slowly exhale from her father’s lips for the last time. She watched as her mother cried out and fell onto the bed, pressing her face against the Duke’s still chest, and sobbing piteously, begging him to stay with her.

She allowed her mother to grieve for a time before ringing for the butler. She informed the man of the Duke’s passing and asked him to summon the Duchess’s lady’s maid, a former chamber maid recently elevated in status, and the physician. After they settled her mother into her room and gave her a dose of laudanum to calm her, Alice returned to her father’s chambers.

She stood over the man who had sired her in silence and felt a tear escape her eye. This man had held power over her and her mother for her entire life, and in the end, he was nothing but a wretched old man who had more regrets than joys. Alice felt some sorrow for this and for herself. Not because she had been denied the luxuries that being a Duke’s daughter should have given her, but because she had never been given a chance to get to know the Duke as a father. So many opportunities had been stripped from her without her ever knowing what could have been. It pained her to think of the kind of relationship she and the Duke might have had if only he had been brave enough to claim it.

She allowed her tears to flow freely for all they had lost as individuals and as a family. When her tears were spent, she leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss against the Duke’s cold, wrinkled cheek.

“You have my forgiveness, father. But I can never allow a child of mine to be anything like you,” she murmured as she straightened.

Her father had been born to one of the highest stations in England, and it still had not afforded him the life he had wanted. He had been forced to follow society’s dictates. He had married a woman he did not love and could never respect. He had kept the love of his life in the shadows rather than face his father’s wrath and lose his wealth. He had given up a relationship with his only child until it was almost too late, and for what? What did being a duke gain him in the end?

Nothing of real value, of that Alice, was sure. She turned and walked to the door. Before departing, she looked at her father one last time and made a silent vow. She would bear no child who would be forced to make the kind of choices the Duke and her mother had. The Fitzroy name would end with her.

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Prologue

The King himself could have been there that fateful night and Isabel wouldn’t have noticed. Even though her mother had decorated their home with the grandest décor of the era and there wasn’t a surface or railing without ribbon, exquisite fabric, or candlelight, all she could see was Anthony Moore. The second son to her father’s best friend—and her childhood love. Ever since she could remember, Isabel had admired the dashing young man. She had the unique privilege of watching him go from a rosy-cheeked, round-eyed little boy that loved nothing more than chasing bugs and sticking them down the backs of his brothers’ collars, to the sophisticated and witty young man before her that night. He was sharp jawed, and his chestnut tresses were so expertly pushed back from his face, with those coffee eyes sparkling at her.

She could have almost forgotten they were dancing; she was so completely lost in him. Any time Isabel’s attention fluttered to the grin on his face, her heart skipped a beat. While he had always possessed a charming smile, it wasn’t the reason for her palpitations. No, it was because she knew that smile was hers. Hers because she caused it, and hers because that night was meant to be the start of their forever. It was her Debut ball, but she knew that the hunt for a potential suitor was over before it began. Anthony had been her end all be all since they were kids; she just hadn’t understood her fondness overgrew friendship until the year leading up to her Debut.

“I’m feeling lightheaded,” she had whispered to him.

His eyes narrowed at her before he asked, “Do you need to sit?”

Isabel, biting her cheek to hold in her excitement, she shook her head. “I could dance with you forever.”

Anthony chuckled and quirked a brow at her. “Then why are you lightheaded?”

He spun her on cue with the music and when she landed chest to chest with him, she finally answered in another whisper, “I think this is what love feels like.”

When their eyes met, he replied, “If that’s the case, I think I’m lightheaded too.”

Isabel hadn’t been lightheaded since that Season; a Season which her mind sentimentally coined the Era of Love. It had been the last time she had felt happiness and romantic love against her fingertips and in her heart. It was a melodramatic thought indeed, but it didn’t make it any less true. And all those years later, almost ten to be exact, she still wondered:

What if he had been the man I married?

Chapter One

A sharp knock on her bedchamber door startled Isabel and she shot to her feet out of habit, which she inwardly cursed herself for. Robert wasn’t there; she didn’t need to be sure to be standing when he entered a room. The door opened and her dear maid, Amy, peered inside. “Baroness Pratt is here, Your Grace,” she informed.

“Rebecca?” Isabel breathed. While it shouldn’t have surprised her that her sister would come to visit due to the circumstances, she hadn’t given it much thought. She was so used to being alone in the estate that it hadn’t crossed her mind people would then try to visit her. Clearing her throat and smoothing her dress, Isabel followed after her maid to greet her sister.

Just as Isabel exited her room, she could hear a commotion in the foyer. As she approached the stairs, she watched as Rebecca ordered about the footmen. “Be careful with that trunk, now. It has my gowns in it and they are worth quite the fortune! I would like a room selected with a view of the garden.”

For a moment, Isabel only blinked. Her sister didn’t appear to have belongings to stay only a night, but rather a long while. Brushing off the way Rebecca addressed the staff as her sister being tired from traveling, Isabel approached her.

“What a lovely surprise,” she spoke up faintly. She hated how feeble she sounded, especially because it would seem like she was still grieving that awful husband of hers, but also because she knew it was what years of being his wife had done to her. Weak, small, and as quiet as possible.

Rebecca spun about and took hold of her shoulders. While Rebecca was only a year her junior, Isabel didn’t think she had ever looked so youthful to her before. Flawless porcelain skin, bright and well-rested eyes, and not a blonde hair out of place. Her face shifted into a sympathetic pout.

“Oh, Bellie! It is so wonderful to lay eyes on you,” she oozed. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind in weeks. I thought about keeping up our letters to see how you are coping, but I really had to come see for myself.”

Isabel nodded but her attention turned to the footmen hoisting trunks up the stairs. “What is… what is all this?” she questioned.

Rebecca’s sky-blue eyes had shifted to a rather serious gleam by the time Isabel looked back her way. “I have tried to give you your space to mourn, Isabel, I really have. However, the thought of you rotting away in this big house all alone for all of winter?” She clamped a hand to her chest. “I simply can’t stand the thought of it. No husband nor children to keep you company, and I know you haven’t exactly been a social butterfly since you married.”

Isabel had to bite her tongue from saying what was really on her mind at her sister’s last comment. That yes, she hadn’t been social—but because Robert wouldn’t allow her to be. After she had told him about her friendship with Anthony as children, albeit leaving out details of the blooming love they had shared, he had become horribly paranoid she would find a man to have an affair with. Women were marked as dangers as well, claiming that they would be bad influences on her. His need for control and his cruelty made Isabel glad they never had children. He blamed her for being barren, but he blamed her for everything, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for their marriage.

Stop. Stop thinking about him right now. He will only spoil your mood.

Clearing her thoughts, Isabel shook her head. “While I sincerely appreciate the thought, I don’t think that it is necessary for you to stay here all winter.”

“Your husband passed two months ago in that hunting accident,” Rebecca stated matter-of-factly, as though Isabel was overlooking the fact. “You should not have to be alone anymore. I wanted to come sooner, but I wanted to give you time to have your cries and such… and my Edmund was about, and I didn’t think you would want another marriage rubbed in your face.”

Isabel shifted a little, folding her arms. She could feel herself caving into her sister’s ways. Maybe it would be good for her to have someone around so she wasn’t only sat with her thoughts. However, Rebecca was a dominating presence and Isabel was longing to find herself. Having her sister there would mean living by her wishes and desires, instead of her own. And yet, Isabel didn’t have the heart to turn her away; particularly because she knew that Rebecca was so well-intended.

“What about Edmund? Where is he now?” Isabel asked, seeing it as her only way out of the situation.

Rebecca clasped her hands together, looking all too delighted to share her answer. “He has been sent away on business and shan’t be back until after New Year.”

It puzzled Isabel that she was so excited to announce her husband was gone, but she assumed that it was more so excitement to spend time with her. All the festering resistance left Isabel at that point. Even if Isabel knew she would have to approach learning to navigate her life as a widow in a more gradual manner, she simply couldn’t turn her sister way. Not when it meant she too would be alone for winter, even though she would likely have friends who would visit her frequently.

“Very well.” Isabel sighed. “Let’s get you settled in.”

Rebecca clapped and pulled her sister in for an embrace. “We will get through this cold, miserable season together. Even if we can’t go to parties or balls, we will have fun. I’m sure of it.”

Ah yes, Isabel wasn’t allowed to socialize until she reached six months into her widowhood. Robert was stunting her ability to be an individual even in the afterlife. Even though she had been granted personal and financial freedom in his death, Isabel was still under the control of a husband because of society’s look on men, women, and marriage. As the sisters ascended the stairs to oversee the unpacking of Rebecca’s belongings, Isabel thought back to the question of what life would have had been like if she married Anthony. It was a question she would never have the answer to, and their time together would be the only Era of Love she would experience—and that had to be alright. She had experienced love and knew what it was like, and she had known the cruel and dark reality of marriage. From then on, it was the Era of Isabel. Her person would not be defined by a man ever again. People would come to know her as Isabel, the Dowager Duchess of Edington. Not the wife of the Duke of Edington or any other edition of the notion. It would take time to learn how to be on her own and fill all the holes married life had left in her, but she would do it. Isabel would pave her own path and have a fulfilling future. Never again would she marry.

Chapter Two

A few months later…

The silly, erratic giggling of mild manner women when he whispered salacious ‘sweet nothings’ to them were one of the few thrills Anthony had left anymore. He knew that he shouldn’t find such enjoyment of making women teeter a fine line between discomfort and carnal intrigue, but he couldn’t help it. The blushing of their cheeks, the weak pleas for him to stop, and that awful little laugh they all had. The woman before him was no different. She fanned herself and attempted to look anywhere but at Anthony, but her eyes always found their way back to him. Her dull eyes sparkled with interest and a silent beg for him to continue his incessant flirting.

“Lord Moore, you are simply too much,” she replied in a hushed tone.

He smirked and dared to allow his fingertips to brush against her arm as he reached for his drink one of the club’s servants had poured him just moments before. “My dear, you do not know the meaning of too much until you have spent a night… joining me for dinner, shall we say.”

There it was, the sharp inhale of breath followed by an eruption of nasally laughter. One of her delicate hands flew over her mouth to try and muffle the sounds so not to draw attention to them, but it was far too late for that. Eyes followed Anthony Moore anywhere he went, hoping to catch a little taste of scandal from the Duke of Mondale’s disgraced son. Anthony felt he had calmed down in recent years since the marriage of his best friend, Ernest Cecil. No longer did he brashly disrupt balls or parade around London with a harlot on his arm with pride as though she were a family jewel. However, he still had to find ways to pass the time, didn’t he?

“My Lord!” she gasped once she had recovered from her giggling. She batted her lashes at him and attempted to convey coyness in her face. “I haven’t any idea what business a lady such as myself would have joining you for dinner.”

With a smirk on his face, he allowed his eyes to rake over her brazenly. Though he would go so far as to say she wasn’t his type, Anthony knew better than to lie to himself. Any woman at all was his type those days. “I can think of a number of businesses we could get up to together.”

There was a loud scoff to the other side of him and with a raised brow, Anthony turned to see who it was. Immediately, his face fell at the sight of his father standing before him, red-faced and nostrils flaring. “Anthony, might you escort me to my carriage?” his father requested, his tone stern and filled with warning.

“I haven’t finished my drink,” Anthony remarked meekly.

“Leave it,” the Duke demanded. As Anthony plucked up his glass and gulped down the remaining brandy, his father turned to the lady and muttered, “If you will excuse us.”

Once Anthony sat his glass down on the countertop, he shot the lady one last look with a shrug before following his father out of the social club. He could feel the anger radiating from his father just as much as the first warm breeze of the year on his cheek. They climbed into the carriage and just as the door shut, before Anthony could even sit, his father smacked his shoulder with a ledger he had been carrying. “What in the Heavens is wrong with you, son!” he shouted.

“What did I do?” Anthony asked, genuinely confused by the level of anger.

“You can’t be so daft,” his father snorted, glaring hard at him as Anthony sat. When Anthony clearly conveyed he didn’t know what the issue was, his father took a deep breath before jutting a hand in his direction. “I have overlooked your fascination with lower class women, but you cannot be flirting with married noblewomen in broad daylight! Are you really so bold?”

Anthony was, but he hadn’t the slightest clue that was what he had been doing. His eyes went out the window, though the club had already slipped out of view. “She was married?” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if it was to himself or his father.

“That is the wife of Count Richard Vanderbilt!” his father exclaimed before taking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. Anthony’s mood softened at the sight. His father was getting older, making his heart weaker than ever and so intense feelings such as rage or discontent truly took it out of him. His face was an even darker shade of red than when he first approached him in the club. Once more, his father had to take a deep breath to compose himself and likely lower his heartrate. A pang of guilt coursed through Anthony. Never would he have wanted his own actions to impact his father’s health. It had seemed that he had gotten by since the Duke’s health had worsened without upsetting him so.

When he settled, his father’s dark eyes sliced into him. “I have had enough, Anthony. I have always attempted to look the other way as you dragged our family name through the mud as you galivanted through England with careless abandonment. And I even foolishly allowed myself to believe that once it was announced your partner in crime would marry, then you would be soon to follow. Or, at least, would have calmed down in your antics. You would not behave in such a way if you had a wife waiting for you at home.”

It didn’t surprise nor offend Anthony to hear himself and Ernest coupled in the same thought. The two of them had grown to be quite notorious and had for the longest time had acted in the same ways. However, he was a bit annoyed that he was expected to follow Ernest along to married life. He had guided his friend to marry Lady Helena because he could tell Ernest was writhing in misery. Anthony wasn’t happy per se, but he wasn’t miserable, either. He had found ways to keep himself entertained and content with life.

Shaking his head, Anthony retorted, “Marriage has nothing to do with one’s behavior. If that was the case, no one in the House of Lords would have a mistress, or a slew of them for that matter.”

“I will not deny the unsavory actions of our colleagues,” his father replied as calmly as he could. “However, what is the difference between your galivanting and theirs? Discretion. When you have a wife at home whose reputation rides on your behavior, you operate with an abundance of caution. And that is precisely what you are missing, my son. Someone to hold you responsible and make you accountable for your actions.”

“I don’t think that is entirely fair—”

“What isn’t fair, Anthony, is you disgracing not just our family name, but that Countess’ reputation and her husband’s! And all in the name of what? A cheap, temporary thrill for you?” his father interjected. There was a tense silence then, Anthony knowing his father was right in that regard. Sighing, the Duke continued, “Do you really think that you would be out, flirting with any woman that so much as glanced your way if you had a wife whose wellbeing was determined by your social stature?”

Anthony wanted to answer yes because he never thought he would change for anyone, let alone a wife he didn’t care for. Marriage was not something that was in the cards for him; it hadn’t been for nearly a decade. However, he knew that wasn’t the answer his father wanted to hear. “What do you expect me to say? What do you expect me to do? That simply isn’t who I am.”

His father fussed with the buttons on his jacket. “Well, it will be. You have done enough damage to our name, and I won’t have any more of it after this escapade is splashed across the gossip columns tomorrow morning. No. Either you find someone to marry, or you will go oversee the family merchant business in America.”

“You can’t be serious,” Anthony breathed.

“I am,” his father snapped. “Either you find someone to propose to and secure a wedding date this upcoming Season, or you will be on the first boat to America come summer.”

“You can’t force me to go to America,” he muttered meekly.

“I can’t, but I can cut you off. You will have no more access to the family finances, and I will sell off your townhouse or gift it to your brother Thomas when he returns from military duty,” he said, and then closed his eyes. His father was struggling to remain composed, and it was eating Anthony up inside. He was used to his father being frustrated with him, but he wasn’t used to visually seeing it have such an impact on him.

The carriage came to a rolling stop outside of Anthony’s home. His father spoke one final time. “You have until the first of June to make your decision. Good day, son.”

“Good day, Father,” Anthony murmured and stepped out of the carriage.

With a cloudy head, he moved into his townhouse and made his way up to his study. The room perpetually smelled of tobacco and brandy, and it always brought him a good bit of comfort. Though as he sank into his expensive, custom desk chair and looked about the stacks of meaningless paperwork on the desk he had re-stained four times until it was the perfect shade of amber, Anthony felt the full weight of his life crash down upon him. His father truly could cut him off without it being much burden to him, and maybe even relief. Anthony had been tasked with various duties in the dukedom to assist his father, but it allotted to busy work. It gave him the appearance of being important without actually being so.

He supposed he would be kissing it all goodbye, however. America would be his new home once a ship sailed him over the ocean blue if he decided to keep connections with his family. Marriage wasn’t so much as a second thought to him, knowing good and well he didn’t want to marry—and he couldn’t. Ernest had lucked out with Helena because he was a Duke, and because of the external forces at play on both parties. It had been a beautiful, perfect storm that guided his friend to true love and happiness.

Anthony wouldn’t have such luck, nor would he entertain it. His longing for love and marriage had started and ended with Isabel Wynn; though he supposed she went by Isabel Swinton these days. The day she refused to run away with him was the day his heart resigned from women forever—other than physically, of course. He had forced himself to try again for a couple of seasons but entertaining the idea of having anyone but Isabel by his side turned him bitter. The bitterness turned him into the carefree, womanizing rake he was. When a person gave up on gaining a partner in life, they only had personal freedom to indulge in. So, it became a game to Ernest and him. To collect women like temporary trinkets, and to make as much of a fuss as possible at balls and other various soirées when others dared to invite them.

It had been his glory days, even if Ernest no longer saw it that way. The two of them had lived life to the fullest being indulgent and reckless. He sighed, knowing that he would either have to kiss the life that he had always been accustomed to goodbye, or leave for America.

Anthony felt in his heart he would be sailing off come summer.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

“You wait here, Mama,” Rosaline said, stopping her mother when they reached Fleet Street. Her mother was looking up at the red brick façade of Number nine, Fleet Market with a pale face. From the outside, a passing stranger might consider it a perfectly normal building situated on the popular Fleet Market square, but any Londoner worth their salt knew the truth.

“Very well,” her mother said quietly, tugging her shawl around her shoulders and gazing up at the debtors’ prison in despair. As many months as they had been visiting, her mother could still not cross the threshold without swooning with stress. “I shall go and fetch us some ribbon then.”

“Yes, do,” Rosaline encouraged her mother kindly. “Do not worry for me, Mama, I have done this many times.”

“I only wish there was no need for you to do so,” her mother said sadly, lifting a hand to cup Rosaline’s cheek, her fingers tucking a piece of Rosaline’s fiery red hair back into place.

“One day soon, there will be no need,” Rosaline smiled softly at her mother. “Go and fetch the ribbon, Mama. I should like green if they have it.”

“Of course, dearest,” her mother said, turning her eyes from the building. Rosaline squeezed her mother’s hand and watched her cross the market square to the stall with the ribbons hanging loose and blowing in the breeze. Then, assured that her mother was comfortably browsing the day’s wares, Rosaline squared her shoulders and set her sights on the door of Number nine. As she approached, she saw a gaggle of wealthy women and their gentlemen suitors waiting outside the door.

“Oh, I hear it is much less savage than Newgate,” one of the ladies was commenting loudly, fluttering an expensive fan in the breeze. “Why, you might even see a gentleman ensconced here!”

Rosaline hated the prison tourists, the wealthy ladies and gentlemen from outside London who thought it a great excitement to tour the capital’s prisons and mock or exclaim at those unfortunate incarcerated souls. She kept her back straight and her basket held out in front of her as she brushed past them, well aware of her tattered hem and patched shawl.

“Oh, how I should like to see that!” another lady exclaimed. “We have nothing so lurid to entertain us at home!”

“Well, ’tis not free to gawk, madam,” the warden at the door said snidely to the lady as Rosaline approached. He eyed her familiarly, nodding and opening the large door as she discreetly slipped a coin into his palm. Rosaline was well versed in the procedures of the prison by now. Bribery was the name of the game.

“Well, now, how is it that the young wench should be so freely admitted?” Rosaline heard the lady behind her demand as she slipped past the door warden.

“She must be visiting a person inside,” the first lady said knowledgeably.

“Her? Such a pretty young thing?” Rosaline bristled as she heard one of the tourist gentlemen commenting behind her whilst she stood inside the door, waiting for a second warden to quickly peruse the basket of food and essentials she had brought in. She caught the warden’s eye as he wordlessly slipped one of her mother’s home baked scones into his pocket. Nothing was free in prison and Rosaline knew that.

“You’d be surprised, milord, at how many pretty young things pass through these doors,” the door warden chuckled darkly. “Either visiting or staying.”

“Well, it seems to me then, that pretty girls have no sense,” the gentlemen scoffed. Rosaline felt herself blushing deeply. As soon as the warden had cleared her to proceed she turned around to glare at the gentlemen standing on the doorstep.

“Maybe so, but at least I have enough sense to know that touring inside these walls to gape at unfortunate souls is nothing short of ghoulish,” Rosaline snapped, spinning on her heel, and marching her way down the corridor, hearing the warden’s chuckle behind her and the gentlemen and ladies exclaiming with dismay. She found she cared not what they thought about her as she stalked angrily past barred doors until she reached the next guard.

“Aye, for Mr. Arnold is it?” the guard said, looking Rosaline up and down with slightly leering eyes that made her uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Rosaline said briskly, throwing back the tea towel covering her basket so the guard could take his pick. She only hoped she would not have lost all of her mother’s famous scones by the time she got to the cell.

“Not hungry,” the guard grunted. “At least, not for that.”

“Very well,” Rosaline sighed and pulled a coin out of her purse, offering it to him. He shook his head, smiling nastily.

“What if I have something else in mind, lass?” he said lewdly, leaning forward. His rancid breath was sour on her cheeks. Rosaline tried not to show her disgust and fear. She had been visiting Number nine, Fleet Market for months now. She knew that some of the guards and wardens traded in more than favors, coins, and food with visiting ladies; she was not naive, but she would not let herself be taken advantage of. She was suddenly very glad her mother was not here to see this.

“Then you’ll put it out of your mind or get nothing,” Rosaline said sharply, pulling a second coin out of her purse and offering it to the guard. “What will it be?”

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then pulled back, snatching the coins out of her hand, and opening the door, leading her along until they reached a familiar oak door with a tiny, barred window.

“A short time only,” the guard snarled, setting a key from his great ring of keys at his waist into the lock and turning it. “If you want longer you know what it will cost.”

Rosaline stiffened and said nothing, waiting until the door had swung all the way open to enter the room, refusing to look at the guard. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he had unsettled her. Over the last few months, Rosaline had developed a spine of steel. She had needed to. She was the only one keeping her family together.

“Rosie!” A thin but happy voice exclaimed. “How lovely to see you!”

“Hello, Papa,” Rosaline smiled, setting her basket down upon the threadbare bed and walking into her father’s warm embrace. He was standing by the window with his sketchbook, which he set down on the sill in order to hold her close. He felt much thinner than the last time she had visited. She pulled away, frowning at him. “You seem reduced, Papa. Have I not been bringing you enough food?”

“No, more than enough, it is only . . . well,” her father coughed, and an abashed look crossed his wan face. “I may have made some trades for art supplies.”

Rosaline shook her head at her father and bit back her reproach. After all, it was her father’s trading and borrowing in order to finance his painting and work as an artist that had sent him to Fleet Market in the first place.

“Mama sends scones,” Rosaline said, removing her shawl from around her shoulders and setting it down on the thin blanket. “I have included some scouse for you, and some fresh apples too.”

“And books?” her father asked hopefully, a mischievous smile flickering across his face.

“Yes,” Rosaline sighed, rolling her eyes. Her father was an impossible bookworm and being locked up all day had done nothing to dim his habit. “A collection of the works of Shakespeare and Marlowe.”

“Well, perhaps I can read the different parts to myself when I become lonely,” her father joked softly. For a moment, he looked distinctly forlorn, and then he reached for Rosalind’s hand. “I do miss you both so. How are you?”

Rosaline looked down at her hand in her father’s. She swallowed back the truth, that her mother seemed like a shadow of herself without her husband, and that Rosaline was always fearful now of her father’s creditor knocking on the door, or that he might send ruffians to their house to steal away more of their furniture or goods. She could not tell her father the truth, that his incarceration was the worst thing to have happened to her and kept her awake at night, worrying about the pennies in her purse, and how they would survive this. Rosaline was only two-and-twenty, with no large fortune or wealthy brother or uncle to support her. She knew there was only one way for her family to make it through this tragedy of circumstance and poor decision-making. Rosaline was determined to make it happen.

“We are well,” Rosaline said quietly, stroking the back of her father’s hand with her thumb. “Do not worry yourself, Papa. Soon you will be a free man again.”

“Oh, have you been saying your prayers, my sweet Rose?” her father chuckled. “Or perhaps someone we know has died and left you a fortune in gold to repay my debt?”

“That would surely help matters, but no,” Rosaline smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. “Do not worry, Papa. I have a plan. I shall see it through.”

*****

“I am only suggesting that the performance would have been greatly improved if more time had been given to the soprano’s talents,” Owen said, falling in step beside Henry and Matilda as they exited the opera house.

“I suppose that had nothing to do with the fact that the soprano tonight was exceptionally beautiful, did it?” Matilda asked, smiling cheekily as she slipped her arm through her husband’s.

“Not a whit, I merely appreciated her talents,” Owen said stubbornly, flicking his cane as he walked.

“I am sure you did,” Henry said drily, raising his eyebrow. “After all, in that gown her talent was more than on display.”

“She was playing the goddess Athena, so, of course the garb of Ancient Greece was perfectly appropriate,” Owen said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You know, I heard a strange little rumor last week, husband,” Matilda began, eyes sparkling, and Owen just knew that his best friend’s wife was preparing to make fun of him.

“Oh, really, love?” Henry said, smiling at Owen evilly. Owen glared back at his friend, who never once came to his aide when his beautiful wife began to tease Owen mercilessly. Owen sometimes thought Henry enjoyed it even more than when he used to beat the stuffing out of Owen at university back at Oxford. “And what was that?”

“I heard that the lady soprano in question, I believe her name is Mademoiselle Elise, received the most fabulous bouquet last week, as well as a gentleman caller after curtain call,” Matilda tapped her gloved finger against her lips mischievously. “Tell me, husband, which young bachelor do we know who always favors giving roses to those he courts?”

“Lady Linfield, you are incorrigible,” Owen said flatly, staring between his laughing best friend and his best friend’s wife.

“She is!” Henry sighed, wiping his eyes, and squeezing his wife’s arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I imagine it is more endearing when it is not directed at your affairs,” Owen said tartly.

“Oh, do not be sour, Owen,” Matilda giggled, winking at him conspiratorially. “If you do not wish to be subject to rumors, then you must try to conduct a less exceptional love-life.”

“I shall bear that in mind, my lady!” Owen sighed, shaking his head ruefully but unable to stop himself smiling. The truth was that Lady Matilda Linfield was quite exceptional. She was Henry’s oldest friend, aside from Owen, and it had been Owen’s great pleasure to watch their courtship evolve. There was an ease about their companionship that Owen longed for in a spouse. After all, here was Matilda, a fine lady of the town, teasing her husband’s best friend about his dalliances! It was certainly unorthodox, but Owen relished the friendship of Henry and his wife. And he adored being godfather to their only daughter, Iris, and, sometimes, when he saw his best friend rolling with laughter at a witty comment his wife had made, Owen was filled with crushing envy.

“So, you are acquainted with the soprano?” Henry pressed, guiding them further along the street towards the carriages.

“Can a gentleman not send a young lady of exceptional talent a bouquet to congratulate her on her performance?” Owen demanded.

“He can, but if he is the young Duke of Lennox he cannot be surprised when there are rumors about it,” Matilda said tartly.

“Or when it ends up in the scandal sheets,” Henry said warningly.

“I am scrupulous about protecting my reputation, as you well know,” Owen said airily. “And what is a bouquet sent in congratulation for a perfectly sung aria? If that is all the scandal sheets can conjure up then they are surely dragging their feet.”

The truth was that Owen had indeed had a secret dalliance with Mademoiselle Elise, which had ended in an eager tumble in her dressing room, but he had no intention of revealing that to Matilda. She saw him as a romantic flirt, as the gentleman who would dance with every lady, complement each one lavishly, and then send them all roses afterwards. Henry, however, knew the truth. Owen did not like a cold bed. Since they’d gone up to Oxford, Owen had enjoyed the company of many fine ladies, and many pretty professionals. His father’s premature death had launched him into his dukedom earlier than expected. He had imagined he would have a few more years of bachelorhood to enjoy before settling down and finding a lady to marry. Then he would have felt ready to assume his father’s title, his days of carousing fully behind him, just a part of any young man’s youthful indiscretions. Yet now, he found himself, a year from being thirty years old, a duke of substantial property and fortune . . . and still unmarried.

“Every scandal sheet I open seems obsessed with you,” Henry commented lightly, his eyes fixed on Owen.

“Oh, you open many scandal sheets, do you?” Owen teased drily.

“No, but I do, and I simply have to tell Henry all about them,” Matilda said, stepping towards the carriage. “After all, it is such a delight to be so intimately acquainted with someone so famous!”

“Oh, why is that?” Owen said sarcastically. “Are there benefits in Society to being a dear friend of the Duke of Lennox, recently branded the most flirtatious duke in the land?”

Owen had not known whether to be flattered or insulted by the title, but then had arrived at his club to raucous laughter and had sorted his feelings out quite quickly. He loathed the scandal sheets. He hated the people who published them, who sent spies into balls and parties to take notes on who he danced with, spoke to, sent flowers to. It had become practically unbearable, especially because he had gotten no closer to discerning who the spy might be. It kept him awake at night, wondering who in the ton was in the pocket of the newspaper men. It had even gotten to the point where he had become convinced he could hear footsteps following him wherever he went, as if everyone in the ton was fascinated with exactly what His Grace, the Duke of Lennox was doing at each moment. It was almost unbearable. The hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose just thinking about it, and he had the horrible feeling that a pair of eyes was following him even then. He caught Henry’s eye and saw that his friend was watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh, no, merely that I get the opportunity to correct public opinion of you at every turn,” Matilda said lightly, with a beautiful smile. “After all, most people seem wrongfully convinced that you are some kind of charmer. And as we all know, you are a perfectly hopeless dunderhead in real life.”

“How dare you!” Owen laughed, shaking off the sensation of being watched from the shadows. “Just because your sister-in-law refers to me as such does not give you leave to go repeating it in company!”

Henry’s sister, Althea, was never short of playful insults for Owen, which he never hesitated to return in kind. Althea was a friend with whom Owen could always be freely himself, as much family to him as Henry and Matilda.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry said, smiling as he helped his wife into the carriage. “Get comfortable, my love, I must catch a word with our resident dunderhead, if you do not mind.”

“I shall bear it,” Matilda chuckled, smiling as Henry closed the door. Then he gestured for Owen to join him in a side alley, his eyes full of understanding.

“Again?” Henry asked quietly. Owen nodded curtly.

“It’s the fourth time this week,” Owen sighed in frustration, running his hands through his hair. “I feel as if I am going mad, always imagining footsteps at my back and eyes on the back of my head.”

“You are not going mad, do not worry,” Henry squeezed his arm affectionately. He knew how hard being thrust into the sudden spotlight had been for Owen. “We will find the answer to it soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Owen said, breathing a sigh of relief. It was good to have a friend on his side. But for some reason, he had the unnerving feeling that they were only just beginning to unravel the mystery of who was watching him and why, and it would only get more complicated the more questions they asked. “I am glad you are with me.”

“I always shall be, my friend,” Henry said.

Chapter Two

“Come, Mama, we cannot dally!” Rosaline said firmly, tugging on her mother’s hand as they walked through the art gallery. Rosaline ran her eyes over the crowds of gentlemen and ladies bustling around before paintings and holding glasses of champagne. She could practically taste her heartbeat in her throat. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in as best she could with the other members of the ton, who were milling around and gossiping. She had deliberately worn her best gown, a soft, pearly satin of pale green, adorned under the bust and at the edge of the cap sleeves with the green ribbon her mother had purchased yesterday at the market. Whilst she never expected to be the most beautiful girl in the room, Rosaline prided herself that she could at least appear to be a respectable member of the ton. No one here would look twice at her or her mother and find them wanting.

“I do not know why we have to rush,” her mother mumbled and then, casting her fearful eyes around the gallery, sucked in a sharp breath. “Goodness, I have not been in the company of some of these people for more than twenty years.”

Rosaline slowed her feet. For a moment, her quest went entirely out of her head. She stared at her mother, at the slight lines around her beautiful eyes and her sad expression; her face was a picture of mourning.

“I am sorry,” Rosaline said quietly, slipping her hand into her mother’s. “I can do this alone, Mama. You can go home.”

“No,” her mother breathed out slowly, closing her eyes and then opening them again. “If twenty years has not made me strong, then nothing will.”

Rosaline said nothing and watched as her mother glanced forlornly around the room, her eyes lingering on a beautiful painting three times the size of Rosaline.

“Do you see the brushwork there?” her mother said softly, her eyes becoming gentle with affection.

“Yes?” Rosaline said, looking at the painting.

“That is one of your father’s,” her mother whispered so that no one else could hear.

“Papa’s?” Rosaline whispered in astonishment, looking up at the enormous painting surrounded by fine people. Why, the cost of the frame alone would surely be enough to settle a large part of her father’s debt!

“Yes, one of his earliest,” her mother mused quietly, looking at the painting with fondness. “One of his first big sales. In the days when he was still the talk of the ton, and I was just a young slip of a thing at her first ball.”

Rosaline watched as her mother drifted into memories. She was doing that more often these days. With a soft smile on her face, wearing a beautiful blue gown, and her head tilted to properly examine the painting, Rosaline caught a glimpse of the type of fine lady her mother would have become if she had never met Mr. Arnold, the new and exciting landscape painter, who had burst upon the ton twenty-five years ago. Rosaline had heard the story of their love many times as a child; it had been her favorite bedtime tale. Rosaline knew how her father had been invited to the seat of the Earl of Edgecombe to paint a landscape of the grounds, how her mother had caught sight of him . . . and instantly fallen in love with his perception and gentleness.

As a child, she had begged over and over to hear the romantic tale of how her parents had fallen into a secret love affair and, afraid of the earl’s disapproval, eloped. The infant Rosaline had considered it the pinnacle of romance, but now she knew romance was not without its sacrifices. Rosaline had never met her grandfather, the Earl of Edgecombe. She had never come out into Society or gone to balls or afternoon tea with other young ladies of the ton. Her mother had married out of Society, throwing her lot in with a talented but scatter-brained painter with no head for numbers or finances. She had never once complained, but Rosaline knew it must be hard for her mother to stand in these halls with these people again and not think about the family she had lost and the life she might have had.

“Do you ever regret it?” Rosaline asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“No,” her mother looked at her fiercely, her voice suddenly low and powerful. “How could I regret the greatest love of my life? The love that brought me my own little Rosie?”

“Thank you, Mama,” Rosaline said, smiling as she squeezed her mother’s hand. “And you do not regret all you lost in leaving the ton?”

“There is nothing to regret here,” her mother said, sniffing disapprovingly as she looked around at the surrounding ladies and gentlemen, all traces of nostalgia vanished. “I still have not the faintest idea why you insist upon this reintroduction.”

“I have my reasons,” Rosaline said, twisting a curl by her ear. Her mother watched her shrewdly.

“You are as much a gambler as your father,” her mother said, shaking her head. “Don’t you realize, precious one, that if there is so much of a whiff of the debtor’s prison about us, then this reintroduction shall all be for nothing? Less than nothing.”

“Well, it cannot be less than nothing,” Rosaline said glibly.

“It can,” her mother said firmly. “Nothing is what we are to them, Rosaline. They care naught for us; they do not know our names or our circumstances. It is worse, much worse, that they should know us and despise us. Then, we shall be in an even more terrible situation than when your father and I eloped.”

“Mother,” Rosaline said in a soothing tone. “You shall have to trust me. I have our family’s best intentions in mind. I am going to free father and make sure that we are all happy again.”

“I suppose you shall also end all wars and fill every hungry belly in the city?” her mother joked sarcastically, shaking her head at her daughter. “Really, Rosaline. You cannot expect miracles.”

“I do not. I only need you to trust me,” Rosaline said, staring into her mother’s eyes. “Can you please trust me, Mother?”

Her mother looked at her for a long minute, eyes tired, but then she sighed, her shoulders slumping for a moment before she rolled them back, her face becoming firmer by the second.

“I shall trust you, sweet Rose,” her mother whispered, tucking her daughter’s hand into her elbow. “Besides, for you to appear as a proper lady of the ton you must be appropriately chaperoned. Come. Let me show you some other pieces of interest.”

Rosaline allowed her mother to guide her around the gallery, talking in a level voice about the pieces of art on display with such clarity and an informed manner that Rosaline could feel some of the other ladies and gentlemen looking at her with approval and interest. It amazed Rosaline to see how these people of the ton communicated so often with nothing more than sideways glances, significant looks, and whispers behind fans. It was a world that ran on gossip and intrigue.

“You know, Mama, I think Marc would have loved to have joined us here,” Rosaline mused, thinking of her lifelong friend, Marc, the son of an Italian artist with whom her father had worked many times.

“I have never known Marc to enjoy art,” her mother commented. “Perhaps a life of over-exposure to his father’s work has ruined him.”

It was true, Marc’s father was a much more successful painter in Italy than Rosaline’s father had ever been in England. Perhaps to spite his father and his consistent criticism of Marc’s life, Marc had permanently relocated to England and declared himself finished with Rome. Consequently, he spent a lot of time with the Arnold family. Now, unlike some other fair-weather friends, he had become an even more ardent supporter following the incarceration of her father. He was a true friend.

“No, but you know he would revel in the intrigue,” Rosaline whispered. Marc had taken a job working at the local newspaper preferred by the ton, working in the gossip and scandal section. It suited him well. The only benefit, he always said, to living inside the art world for so long with his father was the plethora of delicious titbits about Society he gleaned whenever the painters gossiped together. He and his father had not spoken since Marc took on work at the newspaper, but where other Society folk might judge Marc for his profession, Rosaline would never dare. After all, she thought darkly for a moment, am I not benefiting from his profession too?

“Oh, yes!” Her mother laughed, throwing back her head. “My, how Marc has a talent for always knowing exactly what is going on, everywhere!”

“Helena? Helena Arnold, is that you?”

Both Rosaline and her mother turned towards the voice. Rosaline felt her mother’s hand tighten on her arm in fear. Rosaline knew her mother had been most dismayed by the prospect that someone might recognize her from her younger days and bring up her elopement. However, as soon as they looked into the face of the smiling woman in front of them, Rosaline felt her mother relax.

“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you,” Rosaline’s mother said, relief in her voice as she dropped into a curtsey. “Your Grace, might I introduce my daughter, Rosaline? Rosaline, this is the Duchess of Sinclair.”

“Lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Rosaline said, copying her mother’s respectful curtsey before the beautiful older woman. Rosaline knew her mother had kept one friend from her younger days, the only friend who still kept up correspondence with her and had never judged her. But Rosaline had never imagined that such a friend would be none other than the Duchess of Sinclair, the most fashionable duchess of the ton!

“Now, none of that,” the duchess said firmly, reaching out to take hold of her mother’s hands. “You must call me Frances, if I may still call you Helena?”

“Of course,” her mother said, smiling broadly with slightly wet eyes.

“As for you, you beautiful child,” the duchess said, reaching out to take Rosaline’s hand, “you may call me Frances also. I have known your mother such a long time.”

“Thank you, Your Grace . . . Frances,” Rosaline said, feeling humbled but also a little anxious. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in and be as inconspicuous as possible. That was hardly a possibility with the Duchess of Sinclair around. She was known for her excellent sense of style, her talent for rooting out gossip, and her knowledge of everything to do with the ton. Rosaline thought it best to distance herself a little from her mother and the gracious duchess, and so she carefully attempted to move away. She gazed at a painting with feigned interest, hoping to hear some whispers about the gentleman who was the real focus of her attention, the only reason she had come at all to the event. Then, as she gazed at a portrait of a stern-faced admiral, she heard none other than the Duchess of Sinclair mention his name.

“Mrs. Arnold, please meet one of my son-in-law’s closest friends, the Duke of Lennox.”

Rosaline whirled around, unable to stop staring at the man who, at that moment, was bowing so formally and respectfully to her own mother. The Duke of Lennox. The very man she had come to the gallery to find, whose footsteps she had been haunting for days now but had never seen face to face, being always hidden around corners and away from prying eyes. And yet here he was!

She swallowed hard, feeling terror pooling in her belly. She did not know whether to run and hide or brave it out, but for the plan to work effectively it would be so much safer if she was not known to the Duke of Lennox. Perhaps she should simply duck into another room of the gallery? But, unfortunately, her mother was already looking over in her direction. Rosaline tried not to hold her breath as the faces of her mother, the Duchess of Sinclair, the lovely looking couple whom Rosaline recognized as the Duke of Lennox’s friends, and that of the man himself, turned towards her expectantly.

“Darling do come over here,” her mother called, and Rosaline walked forward reluctantly, her head in a daze as her mother slipped an arm through hers.

“Allow me to make introductions,” the duchess said smoothly. “Miss Rosaline Arnold, please meet my daughter and her husband, Lord Henry Linfield and Lady Matilda Linfield—”

Rosaline curtsied before the tall blond gentleman and his dark-haired, very beautiful wife. Lady Linfield smiled at her courteously, but Rosaline was sure she spied a glimmer of excitement cross the lady’s face as she looked significantly at the Duke of Lennox.

“—and this is a great friend of our family, Owen Barton, the Duke of Lennox.”

He was taller than Rosaline had noticed before, always capturing sight of him at night, from behind or far away. He towered above her. She took in the dark hair that curled close to his head, the strong, masculine jaw, and the rather unhelpfully beautiful pale-blue eyes that reminded her of forget-me-nots and were twinkling with a roguish type of mischief. Rosaline couldn’t help it. She stared into them, feeling tingles run up and down her body. There was no other word for it; he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Arnold,” the duke said, bowing low.

“And yours, Your Grace,” Rosaline whispered, watching as the duke straightened up. There was a distinctive note of playfulness in his eyes, and she was sure, just for a second, that he had winked at her. Against every part of her mind crying out that she absolutely must feel nothing for this man, Rosaline felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Her heart began to race, thumping furiously in her breast. Her hands felt sticky as she was mesmerized by those forget-me-not eyes.

Oh, bother! Rosaline thought to herself. This is going to make everything so much harder.