“I don’t believe so.” He captured Prudence’s gaze with a look of open curiosity.
“Forgive me, my lord,” their mother rushed to say. “I forget that you are not yet acquainted with my younger daughter.” She emphasized “younger” as though Prudence was only ten instead of eighteen. Sophia, at nineteen, was apparently a great deal more sophisticated.
Prudence refrained from rolling her eyes at her mother and curtsied instead. “’Tis a pleasure, my lord.” She said nothing more even though she wanted to ask him why his gaze continually strayed to Mrs. Harper. Once he married Sophia, would it continue to stray in that woman’s direction? If so, perhaps he ought to marry Mrs. Harper and not her sister.
“Are you planning to make your bows with your sister this season?” he asked.
Prudence glanced at her mother, knowing she would be reprimanded again if she did not play the part of a diminutive younger sister. She probably should have ducked her head and murmured, “No, my lord,” but she chose to titter and bat her lashes instead.
“How you flatter me, my lord,” she said dramatically. “Can you see that I am not yet of age? My mother only allowed me to come tonight because I begged to be let out of the schoolroom. Lessons are such tedious affairs, are they not? Pure rubbish if you ask me. I would as lief read Radcliffe’s latest novel than study French.”
Rather than lose interest as she expected, Lord Knave seemed to find her declaration humorous. “I think most people would prefer to read an adventure than study French, not that they would admit it.”
Oh dear. He was not supposed to think her amusing. He was supposed to think her daft. Or at the very least ridiculous.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “She is bamming you, sir. Prudence is no more in the schoolroom than I am, and she speaks flawless French. In truth, she should be making her come out this season if not for me and the wretched illness that kept me from traveling to London last year.”
Their mother didn’t seem overly pleased by Sophia’s pronouncement, but Prudence could have hugged her sister for not allowing her to remain silly or naïve or overlooked. It wasn’t that Prudence wished for Lord Knave’s good opinion, but she did not like pretending to be something she was not. It felt dishonest and wrong and did not sit well with her. But her sister had set it all to rights, and in so doing, revealed her own integrity. If Lord Knave did not find that trait admirable, he was both a knave and a nincompoop.
She returned the man’s stare with a cool look of her own, wanting nothing more than to tell the man that he did not deserve her sister. Your social standing might exceed hers, but her character exceeds yours by leaps and bounds.
A reel was announced, and Lord Knave surprised Prudence by nodding in her direction. “Miss Prudence, would you honor me with this dance?”
Her mouth dropped open slightly, and she may or may not have uttered an incoherent squeak, but Felix’s timely return with the drinks gave her a moment to gather her wits. She gratefully accepted the goblet filled with lemonade, took a long sip, and handed it to her mother before facing Lord Knave.
“I do apologize, my lord, but I have already promised this dance to Mr. Callaway.”
To Felix’s credit, not even a flicker of surprise crossed his features. He merely nodded and offered Lord Knave an apologetic shrug. “You must request Miss Prudence’s hand in advance if you want to guarantee a dance with her.” He glanced at Sophia and added, “And you as well, Miss Gifford. Do say you will join me for the following set?”
Sophia’s eyes danced merrily. “I’m afraid I have already promised myself to Lord Knave for the supper dance, but I am free any dance after that one.”
This time, it was Lord Knave who offered the apologetic shrug, though his bordered on smug. “It appears as though we are both doomed to disappointment, Mr. Calloway. I shall do my best to bear it with dignity. Mrs. Gifford, always a pleasure, Miss Gifford, I look forward to our supper dance, and Miss Prudence, I wish you a good evening.” He bowed politely and turned away. After a brief scan of the room, he began walking in Mrs. Harper’s direction, no doubt giving himself a pat on the back for doing his duty by Sophia.
Prudence had the greatest desire to toss a glass of lemonade over his head. Did the man have to be so transparent? Could Sophia not see him for the cad he was? Unfortunately, her sister now smiled at something their mother said, her attention no longer on Lord Knave.
Botheration, thought Prudence. Somehow, she would find a way to make her sister see more clearly.
Felix cleared his throat, and Prudence realized he had been holding his arm out to her, waiting for her to join him.
She quickly slipped her arm through his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“Do you still wish for me to race to your side for the supper dance as well?” he teased. “And perhaps the one after that? Careful, Prudence, or the old biddies will expect a betrothal announcement before the night is over.”
Prudence cursed inwardly. Felix was right. She would have suggested that Lionel take her into supper instead, but the twins were always careful to dance only once with each lady. If Felix danced twice with a woman and Lionel danced with her again, some might mistake that for a third dance for one twin and tongues would wag. No one was ever certain which twin was which.
By asking Felix to dance a second time with her, Prudence had made sure that Lionel would not request a dance at all. Which left her with no one to save her from Mr. Winston.
Drat.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted the farmer standing at the edge of the dance floor, eying her with a look one might give a plump strawberry.
Prudence gave Felix’s arm a squeeze and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I suppose I must release you from the supper dance, mustn’t I? ’Tis a shame, though, as I greatly prefer your company.”
Felix raised his eyebrow, watching her curiously. “As opposed to whose? Lord Knave’s? Never say you find the man objectionable. I’ll not believe it. But why else would you go to such lengths to avoid dancing with him?”
Prudence contemplated how to answer as she took her place for the set. At last she shrugged. “Perhaps I find him a little objectionable.”
Felix’s eyes widened in surprise. “How very interesting. I believe you are the only one of my acquaintance who has ever said or even thought such a thing. Most people find the man exceptional.”
“Perhaps they are not as observant as I,” muttered Prudence, realizing as soon as the words had slipped out that she should have kept them to herself. If Lord Knave was to become her brother-in-law, it would never do to put it about that she didn’t care for him.
Felix opened his mouth to respond, but the music began and the steps of the dance led them apart. When they came together again, Prudence changed the subject, teasing him about his drooping cravat. He frowned and peered down at it, missed a step, and Prudence found something else to tease him about. Soon they were bantering and laughing as they always did, and all talk of Lord Knave floated away in the stifling and airless ballroom.
When the dance ended, Mr. Winston arrived at Prudence’s side, reminding her that she had agreed to partner him for the supper dance, which she hadn’t. But she refrained from saying as much and politely accepted his arm, telling herself that it was only one dance and one meal. And besides, her mother could never accuse her of stealing away another man’s attention while in the company of Mr. Winston. The man did not know how to laugh.
As she feared, supper turned out to be an interminable ordeal. Not only did Mr. Winston have a great deal more to say on the subjects of drainage and crop rotations, but they were seated nowhere near any of Prudence’s family or friends. The couple on her left were interesting enough, but Mr. Winston did not allow her to exchange more than a few pleasantries with them. He claimed her attention most thoroughly, and by the time the last course was served, her head threatened to split open.
Prudence wanted nothing more than to take an early leave, but that would
require her family to do the same, and at the other end of the table, Sophia seemed to be enjoying herself. So Prudence attempted to keep her head as motionless as possible and smile as best she could.
As soon as supper ended, however, she made her excuses and fled out the side door into a room that smelled of paper and leather and heaven. The library. She smiled as she breathed in the familiar scent, feeling the ache in her head ease a bit.
Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Prudence walked to a bookcase and slid her fingers along the spines, searching for a novel. She didn’t care if there would only be time for a chapter or two. She needed relief, and a story would be just the thing. Unfortunately, there were no novels to be found, so she pulled out a book on astronomy and settled into a cozy wingback chair.
A few pages in, her eyelids began to grow heavy, the result of too many sleepless nights. She tried to hold them open for a time until she capitulated, thinking it best to let them rest for just a moment or two.
PRUDENCE AWOKE TO the sound of feminine laughter.
She blinked slowly, waiting for her awareness to return, then peeked around the edge of the chair, only to duck back out of sight when she spied the profile of a woman wearing a sapphire gown throw her arms around a darkly dressed gentleman.
“Knave,” the woman breathed. “How you make me laugh. What a dear you are. I know you have only just returned, but I must thank you for coming tonight. You have no idea how much I have missed you.”
“And I you, Catherine. It is good to see your lovely smile again.”
“It feels a bit foreign, I will admit. But seeing you has made my smile genuine again. Goodness, it has been far too long. This past year has been the longest of my life.”
“A necessary evil, I’m afraid. But I am here now and here I will remain—at least until the London season commences.”
“How wonderful that sounds.” Her voice was hushed, warm, and seductive. Prudence pictured her trailing her fingers along the nape of his neck or threading them through his hair. According to the books she’d read, that sort of touch had the power to captivate a man—not that Lord Knave needed captivating. He had already proved he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman.
“Are you feeling well enough to return now?” Lord Knave asked quietly. “If we do not go back in soon, our absences will be noted and there will be talk.”
“Let them talk,” she pouted. “I do not care a fig for anyone’s good opinion but yours.”
“You know that isn’t true.” Prudence could hear the smile in his voice.
“No, but I will say it nonetheless. It feels good to be a little rebellious. But go if you must. Miss Gifford will wonder what has become of you, and we can’t have that, can we? You need to play the part of a besotted suitor if you are to win her hand.”
“Must I?” He sighed, making it sound like the most onerous of tasks.
Mrs. Harper laughed lightly. “Yes. Now go and be your charming self. I shall wait a few minutes and sneak out the other door, then send for my carriage.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have no reason to stay. You are the only person I wished to see tonight, and I have already claimed your attention for two dances. But I will meet you tomorrow morning at your hunting lodge as planned. Nine o’clock?”
“Yes.” There was a moment of quiet before he added, “Are you certain you are well, Catherine? You still look a trifle pale.”
“I am perfectly well. Now shoo, or both of our reputations will be in tatters. You have already wrinkled my dress most abominably. I could not return to the dance in this state even if I wanted to, which I do not.”
His chuckle was accompanied by the sound of a floor board squeaking. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow,” she responded quietly.
The door opened and closed as Lord Knave exited, and the room became eerily silent. Prudence tensed, attempting to remain perfectly still. Even the slightest hitch in her breath or rustle of her gown would give her away.
“Oh, Knave,” came a quiet murmur. “I have missed you.”
A floorboard creaked again, skirts swished, and another door opened and closed quietly. Prudence waited a moment before finally allowing herself to exhale.
She remained seated as she replayed the conversation in her mind, her jaw clenched in anger. It seemed her earlier assessment of Lord Knave had been correct after all. He was an unscrupulous and despicable knave.
The audacity of the man! The deceit!
A plot began forming in Prudence’s mind—a deliciously sinister tale about a man who led a duplicitous life. By day, he was a proper gentleman with an elegant wife and family. By night, he was a womanizing bounder. The heroine took on the likeness of her sister with vibrant red hair and a smattering of freckles dotting her cheeks. The villain, on the other hand, looked exactly like Lord Knave.
Over the years, Prudence had spent a great deal of time walking the grounds of Talford Hall. She’d even trespassed a time or two onto Radbourne Abbey and happened to know precisely where the hunting lodge stood. She’d even used it as inspiration for a cottage in one of her stories.
If she were to go there tomorrow at say, half past eight, she might accomplish two feats at once. Not only would she be able to compile actual evidence against Lord Knave’s character—hopefully enough to make her sister rethink her reasons for wanting to marry the man—but she would see firsthand how a real-life assignation played out.
That information could come in quite useful with some of her stories. Prudence was certain he could teach her far more about the natures of men than Ms. Radcliffe ever could—at least the natures of despicable knaves.
HILDEBRAND CANNON, OTHERWISE known as The Viscount Knave, or simply Knave to his closest friends and Brand to a few select others, dismounted and tied his horse to a post near the front of his family’s hunting lodge. He examined the sandstone structure, thinking it should look different. Older and aged, perhaps. Crumbled. It seemed like ages since his good friend, Stephen Harper, had taken that fatal fall from his horse in the woods to the west of where Brand stood. Only a year ago, Stephen had sat on his horse at Brand’s side, goading, teasing, and proposing ideas for various larks. Within the short span of several minutes, Stephen had gone from his vibrant, boisterous self to a silent and broken man, never to laugh or breathe again.
One slip of a hoof, one fall, and Catherine had lost her husband and Brand his best friend—all because Brand had decided to host an impromptu hunting excursion.
How dark that time had been. He still remembered the day of the funeral so clearly. Not a single cloud marred the sky, but the air around him had felt dark and oppressive, as though a thick canopy of clouds suffocated him.
The all-too-familiar pain struck him in the chest, and he clenched his jaw. He should not have agreed to come. Far too many memories enshrouded this place—too many reminders of good times that would never be had again.
Brand should have remained in London where it had been easier to forget and not feel. He’d surrounded himself with friends concerned only with entertaining themselves and had spent the last year caught up in frivolous pursuits like gambling, boxing, horse racing, and women. He would have continued in that vein if not for his blasted sense of duty. Not only had Catherine begged him to return, but the time had come for him to renew his courtship of Miss Sophia Gifford.
Brand closed his eyes and shook his head. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to face the past, stick his neck in the parson’s noose, or follow in the footsteps of his responsible father.
He wasn’t ready for anything.
Why couldn’t it have been him who had died instead of Stephen? Brand didn’t have a beloved wife to leave behind—a woman who, bless her soul, had never once blamed Brand for the accident that had claimed her husband’s life.
But Brand had. He probably always would.
From somewhere up above, a sneeze sounded, followed by a muttered feminine oath. Brand pee
red up at the large sycamore tree towering overhead. A single piece of paper floated down towards him, tossing this way and that as it scraped against a few leaves and branches, landing on the dirt path near his boots. He picked it up and scanned the page briefly before peering up once more. Through the foliage above, he spied some purplish-blue fabric and caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a straw bonnet before it disappeared behind a section of dense foliage. He waited a moment, but no further sounds were heard.
“Catherine?” he asked, even though he knew it couldn’t possibly be her. Not only did Catherine have a great fear of heights, but she wouldn’t feel the need to hide in a tree when her presence had been expected. But who else could it be?
No answer came, which confirmed that the woman in the tree was most certainly not Catherine. Who then? A servant? A runaway? A poacher?
He looked down at the page he held in his hand, studying it more closely. An elegant script covered the entire page.
Christiana crept into the woods, her heartbeat escalating with every snap of a twig, tweet of a bird, and rustle of leaves. The sound of an axe striking a tree with slow and deliberate movements came from somewhere in the distance. Her feet stilled for a moment as she attempted to collect her breath and gather her wits. Then she moved forward once more, away from the sound of the axe and towards the dilapidated hunting lodge located in the southwestern corner of the property.
Would she find the area empty and vacant, or would her suspicions be confirmed by the sight of her husband with another woman? A small part of her hoped she’d catch him there because it would mean her imagination had not carried her away into madness. The other part of her, the one that wanted to believe her husband loved her even though he had never given her a reason to believe as much, hoped she had been wrong.
The sound of her husband’s voice met her ears, and Christiana’s body stilled. She carefully slid a branch of a large elderberry bush aside. Across a small clearing, she saw the back of his charcoal black head. His neck, however, was surrounded by two feminine arms clothed in peach muslin.
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