Prologue

The carriage wound its way through Twicham at an impossibly slow pace. Up and down it went, bobbing along the small country roads as the night crawled by. Charlotte shuffled closer to the window, sliding the first pane of glass past the second. She stuck her nose outside and breathed in deeply, thinking herself the most rotten girl in the world.

Fortunately, the postilion seemed unconcerned when he picked her up at the posting house. The drabness of her attire had done its job. Her brown skirt contrasted with the blue of her traveling coat, she’d even scuffed her boots against an oak tree trunk for good measure.

She drew back and looked at her reflection in the glass. Her dark, wavy hair fell in tendrils around her face, and she looked rather wan in the absence of rouge. Her eyes seemed darker for her deception, but perhaps this was for the best.

Dressed as she was, no one would guess she was a lady of the ton, let alone the daughter of a duke. But she was the daughter of a duke, and was bloody miserable for it too.

Oh, her father. Her poor, harrying father. She didn’t dare think of him. Who knew what he might do once he woke up to find her missing? He would undoubtedly have men scouring the duchy from dusk till dawn until they found her. With any luck, she would be on a boat by then and on her way to Italy, France, or Spain, or any other place that wasn’t England.

Because in England, she was Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, daughter of the Duke of Richmond; a spinster in the making at the tender age of three-and-twenty. She was three Seasons deep with nothing to show for it. And now she was set to marry a man she completely abhorred.

Really, they had forced her hand—but she still couldn’t bear to look at herself.

With a sigh, she pulled down the window screen and settled against the silk backing of the rear quarter. Her skull rolled against the headrest, and she closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the pinch of guilt below her heart, she might have succumbed to sleep.

But she couldn’t rest, not now, and certainly not when the most thunderous clap shot through the silence of the night.

Charlotte gasped as the coach jostled on the road. In an instant, the party was thrown into chaos. She leaned against the window, hoping to see who was about, but could hardly make anything out in the faint, violently swaying light of the carriage lantern. The horses reared, and the coach went with them. She heard a loud thud from outside, where no doubt the postilion had been unseated. And then came the whinnying—the terrible, desperate whinnying of the horses.

“What’s happened? Hello?” she cried, but her supplications were no match for the neighing. That was, until there was silence because the horses had bolted off.

Charlotte knocked on the window, chewing viciously at her lips to keep her fear in check. She knew her plan had gone suspiciously well so far, that she had snuck away too easily. Her mind raced as she looked out into the darkness, feeling like she was trapped in a coffin, waiting.

When no one stirred, she pounded against the box’s back panel, hoping to rouse the post-boy. Still, all was eerily quiet. Terror seized her, and her heart felt like it might leap from her throat.

“I’ve never asked for anything,” she prayed in a whisper and pressed her eyes shut, “But I am pleading with you now. Do not let me die here, Lord. Do not let me die, and I swear I shall never do anything so silly again, not for as long as I live.”

She opened an eye and then laughed nervously as nothing happened. No angels appeared, no fire and brimstone either. Only the night stretched out before her, interminable and calm.

Charlotte mustered all her courage and reached out for the door handle. “I cannot simply sit here,” she murmured shakily. “I cannot—” she continued, but she was cut off by the distinct sounds of a struggle outside. The postilion was on his feet. She could see his shadow in the lantern light.

But then another shadow appeared. And another beside that.

And they did not look like angels.

She heard shouting. They were arguing. She needed to hide, and she needed to hide fast. She looked around the box for anywhere she might stow herself away. She found herself crawling in the legroom, pressing up the bench, pressing against anything that might open, but it was no use.

She had to flee. She couldn’t wait for them to rob her, kill her, or worse. Her father deserved better. She grabbed her travel valise and reticule as quickly as she could, stealing nervous glances outside as the scuffle continued, and sat back up. She had to escape while the path was clear.

“On three,” she murmured breathlessly, “One, two—” and the door was opened.

But the path was not clear. It was far from clear, for a man stood before her, holding a gun.

He tutted three times over, each sound a funeral toll. Charlotte was unable to move. She could do nothing but stare up at him, her gaze fixed on the barrel of his flintlock, glinting in the moonlight. He had it leveled against her face so close she could lean forward and taste gunpowder.

“Do as you are told, and you will be free to go.”

His drawl was confident and deep, like smoke and velvet. There was a lilt to his words that sounded playful, and it only frightened her more. She couldn’t see his face behind the tall, black collar of his coat, and his eyes were shadowed by a tricorn hat. He was English, of that much she was sure, but he didn’t sound anything like the lords of her acquaintance.

From the corner of her eye, she looked for the postilion. As she feared, he was lying on the ground, subdued by the man she assumed was her assailant’s partner.

Charlotte nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her life was on the line. She was biting her lip so hard she had drawn blood. In her daze, she lapped at it, and could’ve sworn she saw a smile form in the man’s eyes. He sighed and swung the gun at the box. Charlotte flinched back.

Wordlessly, he climbed in after her. There they sat, the daughter of a duke and a highwayman, like two lovers riding through Hyde Park in a phaeton. The other man stepped around the carriage to the back. It sounded like he pushed something off the vehicle as it bounced and swayed: the body of the post-boy, Charlotte thought, who she realized now had been shot.

“Don’t worry yourself overlong. You’ll be back on your way to your tryst in a minute, and can pretend none of this ever happened.”

The man with the gun spoke to her again, but his words sounded distorted and distant. He reached forward and swiped her reticule, and she watched as his calloused, long fingers struggled with its clasp. Charlotte’s surprise turned to indignation as she took in the full measure of his words.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, sounding as disbelieving as she felt.

The man stopped and looked up at her from beneath his hat. The lower half of his face was shrouded in dark fabric, but she knew he was smirking. “What did you say?”

Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t know what she was doing, only that it felt better than sitting in silence and watching him rifle through her belongings. “I asked for your pardon, not that I am eager to receive it,” she scoffed, “Thieving is one thing, but assuming a lady’s promiscuity is quite another. I can assure you, I am no adventuress.”

The man drew back, and the conveyance suddenly filled with low, dark laughter. Charlotte stared in incredulity as he set his flintlock aside and rubbed his gloved palms against the linen of his breeches. “I dare say I have touched a sore spot.”

“I dare say you are quite mistaken. Rob me of my—” she gestured to her reticule “—lemon bonbons, handkerchief, and coin purse all you like, but you shan’t find any dignity there. Nor any manners.”

With a little gasp, she sank into the corner of the box as if it might shield her from his ire. Her father had always said her sharp tongue would be her downfall, and she feared he was right. But the man didn’t look angry. He didn’t hold himself any differently for her caustic comments. He watched her as one might watch the opera—with marvel and a slight lethargy.

The second man began rifling the coach for loot, but neither stirred within. He could steal her shifts and slippers to his heart’s content. Everything that mattered had been packed in her personal valise, and she nudged it closer to herself with her foot.

The soft scraping sound caught her assailant’s attention. His eyes darted down and then back at her. “What had you hoped to find at your journey’s end, if not a lover?” he asked wistfully, the softness of his low voice sending a ripple of nervous energy down her spine.

“A new beginning,” she admitted as a trembling hand reached for the door handle behind her.

But it was no use. The man was quicker than she was and stronger, too. He sprang for her, and he seized her wrists with his hands.

“Let me go! Don’t touch me! You have no right to me!” she wailed, but the man only chuckled. She pressed her lips together, fighting for traction against the cushions. She clawed at his face, wanting to remove his mask, but he pushed her hands away. He soon had them pinned above her head, her wrists in one of his hands.

“It’s not your body I want,” he growled, and Charlotte swore he sounded offended by the accusation. He grunted and reached down between her ankles for her portmanteau. With a shake of his head, he brought it to his lap.

“You’ve no right to that either! Please,” Charlotte pleaded breathlessly, “Take what you will from the back. Take all the money I have. Leave the rest alone. You’ve no use for it, sir! No use at all!” She wriggled in his hold and kicked at him, trying to knock the case from his legs. “Help! Help! I’m—”

She couldn’t say anything more, for he smacked his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. He held it there, and she tasted salt and leather. He shot a look around him, then leaned in close and whispered fiercely, “The more you yowl, the harder this will be.” He hesitated and listened for the other highwayman. “Do you understand?”

Charlotte began crying and could barely see beyond the veil of her tears. She nodded and breathed back a sob. Her body slackened, and he let her go.

“Good girl,” he murmured and cupped her face with his hand. He made quick work of the bag’s lock, snapping it off like a biscuit. “I shall only take what I can pawn.”

“Look,” Charlotte whispered, giving him pause, “My whole life is in that bag. What will it take for you to turn a blind eye to it? I swear to you, my father is a very powerful man. Give me an address and name, and I shall send you as high a ransom as you desire. You could feed yourself not only for a day—but for a lifetime.”

The man stopped in his tracks and dipped his head low. “You wish to know my name, little girl?” They locked gazes, and it made Charlotte dizzy. She could not make out the color of his eyes in the dark, but their gleam was so rich she felt she needed to turn away. But she did not, not even as he said, “I’m your gentleman’s master.”

His voice carried on the air like smoke. Charlotte knew then that he would not listen, not even if she offered him the world itself. She could only sit back and watch as he opened her case and tore through her effects—she had never felt so violated.

Out flew her white lace shawl and her mother’s heirloom fan. He pocketed a length of pink and white pearls, her golden brooches and hairpins, and her hanging opal earrings. He cast aside her diary and found her vinaigrette and an additional coin purse beneath it. She had little in the way of money, having saved up as much as she could from some of her published writings, and the purse jingled sadly for it.

And then, by luck or fate, he found the clasp that opened the bag’s false bottom. He looked up at her, and his eyes arced with the same infernal smile as before. “What secrets lay beyond your threshold, I wonder?” he mused aloud, and Charlotte was powerless to respond.

All amusement fell from his expression as he lifted away the leather panel. He dropped it aside and buried his hands into the bag. The sound of crinkling paper filled the box, and Charlotte recoiled.

“What on earth…?” he began to question but trailed off. He lifted his hands up in confusion. He was holding her poems—which were most dear to her—on their bunched up, wrinkled and ink-stained sheets of paper. Her newest collection. He set them back down and picked up her leather-bound journals, flicking through the pages like he was in a library.

“You’re a modern-day Milton,” he murmured in jest, but there was nothing funny about it to her. Her heart had dropped to her stomach.

“Milton was a man,” she quipped back, growing angrier by the second. “Put them down,” she grizzled and balled up her fists, “or I shall scream again.”

The man looked at her as if he were transfixed. “Scream. I shall be delighted to hear it.” He grinned, but there was contempt in it. “I am no great admirer of the arts. ‘Tis a gentleman’s habit, and I am anything but. I shall cast these away with all else I cannot sell, don’t you worry.”

Suddenly, a loud banging came from the top of the coach. Charlotte covered her ears and gasped.

“Lieutenant!” she heard the man from outside shout.

“That’s my cue,” her thief said flatly. He sighed and slammed the valise shut, taking it with him as he swerved out of the box. She followed him, but he turned around just as she put a boot to the carriage step. “Surely, you’re not thinking of following me, princess?” he hummed and leaned in. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and all she could see were stars.

The sound of hooves came rolling from behind them. The second assailant was riding past, his mare saddled with Charlotte’s other belongings. He held the reigns of another horse, though they looked nothing like the sandy thoroughbreds the postilion had been commanding.

“Perhaps we shall meet again in another life,” the man before her crooned. Then he turned on his heel and hopped atop his horse as it galloped past.

Charlotte dashed after him, off the carriage and into the night. She kicked up dirt as she ran, following them down the lane until they outpaced her.

And then they were gone, and she was alone.

Alone and lost, with only the broken dream of her freedom for company.

Chapter One

“Hail, to see her beauty, sobered. Lips soft and petaled as… as… Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Charlotte slammed her quill down against her vanity and breathed a guttural sigh. “Can you recall what came after this verse, Josephine? Something about flowers, or doves, and—” She waved her hand in the air as though her genius might swoop in and save her.

Josephine smiled behind her, contentedly plaiting her hair. “Hail, to see her beauty, sobered. Lips soft and petaled as the roses of your garden. Sire, to be with you is to be reborn.”

Charlotte clapped her hands together. “Blessed that you are, Josephine! That’s right!”

She leaned back over her vanity, taking the lengths of her hair with her, and scribbled down the last of the poem’s verses. And with that, she was done.

It had been a month since she had tried to run away—a month since the robbery. She and her modiste had made short work of replacing the gowns, shifts, and reticules the thieves had done away with. But restoring her anthology was not so easy a task—second only in its labor to the healing of her pride.

She beamed as she looked down at the poem and read it over. She knew it was a little scandalous, a little avant-garde, too. But it was hers, and she was proud. She dipped her quill back in its ink and gleefully signed it, Charles F. Huxley.

She was proud, but she was not a fool. Should the ton come to learn of her salacious writings, her entire family would be shamed. Thus, Charlotte became Charles so that the poems might become tolerable, which felt like a fair enough price to pay.

“Unless my memory is failing, I do believe that’s the last of them,” she confessed dreamily and twisted around to look at her fair-haired lady’s maid. “I truly cannot express just how grateful I am to you, Josephine. How ever did you become so smart?”

Josephine grinned bashfully. “It’s nothing to do with smartness, my lady. I’ve heard you recite your poems for nigh on four years. Some of it was bound to stick.”

Charlotte looked up at her. “Still, I am so thankful.” She twisted back around, resolved to stop making Josephine’s coiffing twice as hard as it need be, and took off her reading spectacles. “I shall send them off to my publisher on Piccadilly soon, as long as one of your young cousins is willing to go for me. Who knows who might be reading and renting these soon?” Charlotte watched Josephine in the mirror, and the girl’s expression dipped. “Unless you think that’s quite a foolish idea. Perhaps I should not push my luck.”

Josie blinked and started. “No, it’s not that. Not at all, my lady,” she stammered, but she was hardly convincing.

“Speak plainly, Josephine. You know I trust you with my life,” Charlotte cooed, and it was true. When she had fled the duchy, Josephine had been the only one she had trusted enough to tell. She picked up her poem. “And these are my life.”

Josephine reached for a champagne-colored ribbon on the vanity. “I worry what the Duke might do if he finds out. His Grace was none the wiser when you published the first set of poems… but what if people start asking after you? The Season is already heavily underway, and you’ve yet to find a better match. I hate to think of you lumbered with that old, dribbling duke your father is truest friends with.” She hesitated and smoothed out the ribbon. “Oh, but I do hope this doesn’t deter you. Why, I hope everyone has the chance to read your work one day! I’m only nervous. I cannot lie and say I’m not. I know it’s not my place—”

Charlotte hushed her maid by bringing a hand to rest atop her own. “It is precisely your place,” she stressed, and her eyes were wide with kindness. “Your place is with me, and you are right—I am pushing my luck. Although Papa isn’t nearly as determined to wed me off to the Duke of Gamston as he was before my,” she whispered the next word as though it were sacrilege, “aborted flight.”

She wrangled with a smile, because really, there was nothing funny about it. She could hardly remember anything from the night—not her fear, nor her pleading—nothing but the snorting of the horses and the glint in the man’s eye as he had toyed with her. He was a phantom to her now, but not a thing of nightmares as she imagined he would be.

She quite liked that she had a secret. It was the only experience to separate her from the vast sea of damsels with whom she brushed shoulders… not that they were wise to her attempted escape.

Her Papa had not been nearly as insouciant about the whole ordeal. He had been inconsolable when she had returned at last, having been picked up along the road by some riders from the Penny-Post. He had forgiven her that same day, and when she had shared her side of things, he had promised leniency in the matters of matrimony.

The leniency was as follows: one final Season to make her own way, to find a man of her choosing, provided he was of noble birth. One last chance to find love or forever be saddled with the detestable Duke of Gamston. To forever live a life of regret and torment.

“I cannot say I am eager to see him,” Charlotte murmured, voicing her fears aloud. “Gamston, I mean to say. Anyone would think he had only my father for friendship, though I suppose the same could be said of Papa.” She paused. “It is so strange to think the man had been like a second father to me for so long. He has known me since I was in pinafores. He taught me to play chess, to read Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake! That he should be my prospective husband…” She shook her head in revulsion.

“Well, my lady,” Josephine replied, “It’s not so strange to me. A man is a man, no matter the blood running through him. You are the perfect lady, and the Duke of Gamston has no children. If you’ll pardon my saying, you know better than most what the world thinks of us women.”

There was nothing to forgive, for Josephine was not wrong. The Duke had shown no interest in making a wife of Charlotte, not until his father had suggested the sordid thing when she turned six-and-ten. It did not mean he had not been thinking about it.

“I suppose it will do me no good to consider the matter now. I have bought myself a pocket of time. Rather, those dratted brigands did.”

Charlotte supposed she owed the bandits a great deal. Without them, she may have been married by now or dead in a ditch in Italy. She didn’t quite know which of the two sounded more promising.

She looked back at Josie, who was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t know how you manage to joke about what happened. If it were me, I’m not sure I would ever be able to live normally again. Were you not terrified of the bandit?”

Charlotte breathed a laugh. “I was at first, I shall not lie, but he seemed to have no interest in causing me harm—quite the opposite, actually. By the end of it, I pitied him more than anything else.”

“Pity?” Josephine echoed in disbelief before laying the thick, French plait over Charlotte’s shoulder. Her fringe had been coiled in ringlets. “Of all the things he deserves, my lady, pity is not it—irons, more like it.”

“I have no doubt those are precisely what they were fleeing. The debtor’s prison, or something of the sort. Not that it matters now.” She smiled and shifted in her seat. “No, I would take my chances with those assailants over Gamston any day. What a frightful prospect…” she said through a laugh, and Josephine looked at her as though she had lost her marbles before giggling as well.

The girl moved over to her armoire, and she followed. “Oh, my lady… Frightful though it may be, unless we can secure a match for you before the month is up, it may be quite real as well.”

Charlotte sat on her bed and reached over to her side table. She pulled open its top drawer and sneaked a sugar plum, leaving one aside for Josephine. She took a bite from it as she said, “I can hardly be blamed for rejecting all those who have asked for my hand when they are all so terribly dull. The Marquess of Hexam almost bored me to tears at his house party last week, and his son was no brighter.”

Josephine sighed and walked over to her, carrying Charlotte’s gown for the evening. It was a gorgeous affair of peach silk, with white puffed sleeves and lace along the bodice. Pearls had been dotted down multi-tiered skirts, and Charlotte had to suck in a breath at the sight of it.

She may have detested being a duke’s daughter for reasons beyond number, but she would never tire of the gowns—or the sweetmeats.

“If this does not do the trick, I truly do not know what shall,” she joked, and clapped in delight. She primed her arms as Josephine lifted the gown over her head. The maid had to stand on the very tips of her toes, as Charlotte was quite a bit taller. She turned so Josie could fasten the back, looking herself over in her brass standing mirror.

“Do you know who’s attending this evening, my lady?” Josephine asked as she worked her way down her back.

Charlotte brought a hand to her bosom, quite enamored with herself. “The Earl of Singberry is hosting, which undoubtedly means his horse-mad sons shall be there. Matthew mentioned his friend Ambrose will be in attendance—though he’s as tolerable as Matthew himself, which means he isn’t tolerable at all. Father mentioned something or other about a few prospective marquesses. Naturally, Gamston will be looking to tag along,” she listed off and groaned. “It shall be a fairly large soirée. If nothing else, there shall be plenty to look at.”

“With any luck, someone will catch your eye, my lady,” Josephine said with finality as she fastened the last button of the gown.

Charlotte gave a small turn to admire herself and nodded. “Well, it has been rumored that Lady Singberry is a literary at heart and has invited a few writers along that we might engage in some sort of recital or competition, I’m not sure.” She paused and smiled in earnest. “So, should there be a man in attendance worthy of my heart, that is one way in which he will make himself known.”

***

Charlotte hurried down the grand staircase of Richmond Court, the hem of her gown trailing behind her like froth on a stream. Her gloved hand slid down the railing, burning against the varnished mahogany. She looked down over the entrance hall, where her stony-faced sister and brother were waiting for her.

“How long can it take to put on a frock?” Matthew chided as she hit the last step. “I could have sworn I saw Josephine in the hallway a quarter of an hour ago.”

Charlotte struggled to catch her breath as she spiraled past him, hooking young Eleanor under the arm and dragging her along. Her younger sister appeared almost too nervous for words in her bright blue gown, her dark hair piled high atop her head. Charlotte cupped her face reassuringly.

“I got rather carried away with some writing, brother dearest, though I’m not surprised the concept of creative passion is lost on you,” she quipped. “How are you, darling?” she asked her sister, who looked like she could be sick at any moment.

Matthew walked toward the vestibule, snatching his hat from a footman. “It’s the first ball of the Season. How do you think she is faring?”

“I’m not sure I want to attend,” Eleanor moaned. Her dark blue eyes were full of worry, and Charlotte felt her heart feel for her sister. Her sister had attended only four balls since her debut and was fostering a wallflower’s reputation. “What if no one wants to speak with me?”

“That’s what Matthew is for,” Charlotte said, then shot a look at her brother. She was struck by how much he looked like their father in his hat and redingote, with his chestnut hair and hooked nose, albeit thirty years younger. “Is that not right, Matthew?”

Matthew tutted and pulled out his pocket watch. “I suppose. Now would you please—” he groaned and gestured for the doors. “Father is probably driving himself mad inside the carriage. You know how his humors are, as of late,” he added with a pointed look towards Charlotte.

She had to restrain herself from sticking out her tongue at him. He left the two Fitzroy sisters alone, and the vestibule felt suddenly lighter for his departure.

“I really don’t want to attend if I’ll only have our brother for company,” Eleanor murmured. Charlotte had to hold in a laugh. The evening was already turning out to be a lesson in self-control. “I must find a man to dance with. I simply must!”

Charlotte slipped her arms into her cape and shook her head. She tried to remember what life was like at six-and-ten, but the memory of those years was only stained with grief from the passing of their mother. She shook the thought away and held out her hand.

“You are the funniest, sweetest, silliest thing,” she lilted, and her sister seemed to calm. “You owe nothing to no one. Not a dance, nor a smile, and certainly not a match. Enjoy the evening for what is it, as a diamond or a wallflower—it matters not. They will look at you. And if they don’t, we shall make them look.”

Eleanor looked up at her, a little less crestfallen than before. “How can you be so hopeful?”

Charlotte stilled and brought her sister’s gloved hands to her mouth. “A little dreaming, a little pretending,” she confessed, and the girls sighed cheerfully before stepping outside.

Chapter Two

As Benjamin glanced around the grand hall of Rector’s Hall, he decided there was nothing more loathsome than a London party. Perhaps he was being too sweeping with his statement, too sentimental. After all, this was the largest party of this kind he had ever attended—and it was, for lack of a better phrase, utterly overwhelming.

Even for a gentleman of his caliber.

He was no true gentleman, of course—he didn’t have the complexion for it, nor the leisure. Not that it mattered. The lords in attendance couldn’t see beyond the tips of their noses, which were colored red not by sun, but by overindulgence; the ladies fluttering their eyelashes behind their brilliant-dappled fans.

The room was draped from top to bottom with red silk tapestries and ribbons, most likely left over from Christmastide just passed. Chains of ivy had been fastened to the beams, running from the musicians’ balcony at one end of the room to the other. Glass chandeliers sparkled overhead, matched only in their luster by the twinkling of crystal glasses on the refreshment tables.

Every inch of the place was colored gold with wealth, making Benjamin sick to his stomach.

The guests had been called to the ballroom, but no dancing seemed to be underway—for which he thanked his lucky stars. A few ladies had shot him wary, curious glances with a touch of desire in them too. He supposed he did look fairly handsome, catching a sidelong glimpse at his reflection in a nearby set of windows. His double-breasted suit was darkly opulent; his cravat a dazzling white. He had swept back his dark, unruly hair, and his sideburns had been shaved to a point along his jaw.

Despite all this, not a single chaperoning mother had sought to make introductions, and Benjamin had never felt more relieved for his lack of fancy friends.

Still, he had found himself trapped in conversation, by an acquaintance of a friend of the host, Lord Singberry, or some such thing—his wife had extended Benjamin an invitation. The man’s name was Pollock—Mr. Rafael Pollock—whose father was a baron and mother a Spanish heiress. He seemed almost as uncomfortable as Benjamin, clutching his glimmering glass of punch for dear life. He was speaking with another man, who slurred his name so badly that Benjamin had no chance of understanding it. And the topic of discussion was Benjamin’s second favorite thing: money. Since the first was his own self.

“…which is why,” the drunken lord drawled, “it is most unwise to overhaul plots the tenants have tended to for generations. Really, you would think your father knew this, Pollock. He’s in no situation to act the philanthrope now.”

Pollock was visibly disquieted by the man’s rambling, and Benjamin had to mask his amusement. “I will be sure to relay your advice, my lord, but my father is not so destitute as you think. He owns half of Milchester—and some farms further out.”

“A burgh like Milchester is hardly worth the trouble. A money pit is what it is,” he further slurred. What remained of the man’s blonde hair, all three stands of it, wafted in the breeze from an open window close by—the night was unusually mild for January. “No, the way I see it, you should do ol’ Milly a favor and do as he did.”

“Which is to say?” Pollock mumbled.

“Marry a woman with twice your wealth and pump her full of heirs.” The pot-bellied lord let out a most vulgar laugh, sloshing his drink about and doubling over.

Pollock hopped back, his dark eyes narrowing in disgust. Doubtless, he would have sprung further away had the man’s grip not been a vice on his shoulder. “Really, Lord Butland, the ladies will start to look.”

“All the better, for catching a wife,” the drunkard—Butland, Benjamin noted with a discreet snap of his fingers—laughed some more. He shot back up, wiping his eyes. “Ah, but fat chance you’ve got of bagging a wife with this pretty cad standing next to you.” Butland turned, and Benjamin leveled the man a look that cautioned him against speaking. He spoke anyway, “So, what it is you do?”

Benjamin sucked in a breath. The last thing he needed was for people to start looking over. He would need to subdue the man. Quickly. “I write,” he declared, with a sweep of his hands.

The lord blanched. “You what?”

“I write,” he repeated. “Things,” he added less convincingly.

“Are lords in the business of writing things these days?” Butland pressed. Beside him, Pollock was clearly relieved to have escaped his interest, wiping away a cast-off drop of liquid from the lapel of his jacket.

Benjamin breathed a laugh. “I can assure you, I am no lord.”

“Our friend is one of the writers Lady Singberry invited as part of the recital,” Pollock explained offhandedly, then seemed to curse himself as Butland turned back to him. “I believe. I’m sure the man knows more of himself than I do,” he added, throwing Benjamin back to the wolves.

“Right, right,” Butland mouthed. “Are you any good, sir?”

“Oh, I’m the best.”

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