by Sara Ramsey
She offered her hand. He looked exactly as he always had, dressed in a suit that was immaculately tailored to his slim build. At twenty-eight, he was ten years older than her, and he had enough power and ambition to carry himself with the gravitas of an elder statesman. But his hazel eyes didn’t hold the judgment she expected to see — only wry sympathy and a hint of what might have been nerves.
But that made no sense.
“Would you care for tea?” she asked, gesturing for him to sit.
He took the chair across from her, balancing his hat on his knee. “I thank you for your hospitality, but my errand shan’t take long. I wouldn’t want to disturb you longer than necessary.”
Ava wanted to be disturbed. Anyone was better than talking to Lucy, and Somerville was the first visitor she had had since Julian’s death. He might be the last.
“As you wish, my lord. How long have you been in the neighborhood?”
They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. Somerville had claimed that he didn’t want to waste her time, but the nerves she’d seen on his face came to play during their conversation. He seemed loath to bring up whatever had brought him to Maidenstone. Not that he had gone too far out of his way to see her — he had an estate within an hour’s ride of the abbey. He had gotten on well with Julian and had attended her brother’s parties…but she wouldn’t think of that.
Eventually, though, their pleasantries faltered. She looked at him expectantly.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked.
She frowned. “As well as one can feel when one’s brother is dead and one’s reputation is ruined.”
He tried to cover his laugh with a cough. “I beg your pardon, Miss Briarley. Your directness has always been refreshing.”
Others had said that in London — it was part of what had made her an Incomparable. But those same people were likely less forgiving of her directness now that she had a harlot’s reputation.
“There is no sense pretending that my situation is different. Was there a reason for your visit, my lord?”
Somerville adjusted his cravat. “I thought we might be able to help each other.”
Ava frowned again. The obvious answer was that he was going to propose marriage to her. But only someone who was desperate for her dowry would take her now. Somerville was too wealthy to need her.
“I do not know what I could help you with, my lord, but I shall endeavor to assist.”
“How accommodating,” he said. “But you may not wish to accept. I’m in need of a mistress.”
Her mouth dropped open. She would have died before expressing that much shock in London — but here, with Somerville asking for carte blanche in the middle of the day in her grandfather’s drawing room….
“What?” she said, entirely inelegantly.
He held up his hands. “I do not wish to dishonor you. I’ve held you in the highest esteem since making your acquaintance. But with your…situation, I thought you might like to escape Maidenstone. And I need a mistress to host my political salons. Beauty is easy to find in London, but wit and intelligence are harder to come by. You, as you surely know, have all three.”
The idea intrigued her. But that didn’t stop her from feeling like she had been punched in the gut. Two months earlier, she would have laughed in the face of any man who made such an offer — or shot him, if she were feeling bloodthirsty. Julian had killed Chapman and lost his own life over a kiss that was far less insulting than this.
But Ava remembered the whispers in the modiste’s shop.
She knew she would never be accepted again.
She could stay at Maidenstone until she died. Or, at least, she thought she could. She didn’t know what would happen to the estate now that Julian was dead. The solicitors were combing the family tree looking for possible missing heirs, but it was almost certain that the other lines were extinct.
If no heir turned up, Ava assumed that the estate would be split between her and Lucy. There was another cousin, Callista, who had emigrated when she was five and stayed in America after her parents’ deaths. But she refused to come back to England. It was unlikely she would ever return.
If Ava and Lucy inherited together, could Ava stand to live her life as she lived it now? Sharing a massive, ancient house with Lucy, the two of them growing old together with hurt and hatred as their only company?
Ava scowled. Somerville must have thought it was directed at him, because he stood. “I beg your forgiveness, Miss Briarley. Again, I meant you no dishonor. Please let’s not speak of it again.”
She had known Somerville for years, long enough to know that his tone was sincere. She looked him over. His body was trim and pleasing. His hazel eyes were guileless. He had a firm jaw and a handsome appearance.
And he was rich. Ava supposed she needed to think about that — no longer in the way of a girl seeking a husband, but in the way of a woman seeking a protector.
“Please, sit,” she said. “Your offer surprised me, but it is not unwelcome.”
As soon as she said the words, he relaxed. “I had so hoped you would say yes. I’ve never taken a mistress before, but my political ambitions are such that a mistress could help me to move in certain circles more effectively. But I want someone whose conversation I enjoy. And I could think of no woman with whom I would rather go to the opera than you.”
Ava hesitated.
She stood on the edge of a new life, one that was unknown to her — one that should have remained unknown to her. Gentlewomen didn’t acknowledge that mistresses and courtesans existed. Ava, like everyone else, had pretended not to notice them. But it was impossible not to notice them. Mistresses weren’t invited to parties, unless they were well-born wives or widows who kept their affairs discreet. But they were on display in boxes at the Royal Opera. They promenaded through London, driving expensive carriages and living on quiet but fashionable side streets that ladies avoided.
If Ava had married someone like Lord Chapman, she might have spent the rest of her days pretending that those women didn’t exist. She would have stayed safely in the drawing rooms of Mayfair, pouring tea, and pretending that she didn’t know that her husband kept a woman like that in a house nearby.
But that choice was gone. She could stay in Devonshire, pouring tea only for herself. Or she could take the offer Somerville gave her to become someone else. Someone who lived, albeit scandalously. Someone who could go to parties of the wrong sort and have interesting conversations and do daring things.
All of it waited for her in London if she said yes.
And if she gave up any hope of redemption.
“I like the opera,” Ava said, knowing it was an inane comment. It was the best she could do under the circumstances. “And I like parties. But you should know that I’m not ruined. Not really.”
She meant it euphemistically. For all her daring, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask anything about lovemaking. She didn’t have the words for it. She didn’t know what she wanted even if she could say it.
She couldn’t know whether Somerville understood her meaning, but he smiled encouragingly. “I will treat you exactly as I would treat any other lady. I seek a mistress for her mind and her social abilities, not her…other talents.”
He was able to say it without blushing. Ava couldn’t match that feat, but she nodded even as her cheeks blazed.
She wasn’t entirely stupid. He would ask for something more than conversation, someday. And she would have to give it to him.
But the alternative — a slow, decades-long death in Devonshire — was something she already knew she couldn’t bear.
Of course, there would be consequences if she became someone’s mistress. She could never go back to respectability. She would be entirely dependent on Somerville — but then, women were almost always dependent on some man. Her grandfather might disown her. Lucy would never speak to her again.
Lucy. Even thinking her name hurt.
Someday, when she had the chance, she would pay Lucy ba
ck for what she had done. But today, her first concern was escape.
She smiled at Somerville and stepped into the abyss.
Chapter One
Four years later… London, 7 June 1813
Walking into a London townhouse was nothing like scouting through a forest in Spain. No cracking undergrowth or silenced bird calls would give anything away. There was no reason for the urgent beat of his pulse — no one waited for his report, and no lives depended on his speed. But Lord Rafael Emmerson-Fairhurst was completely alert as he strolled, seemingly relaxed, into the grand receiving rooms of Somerville House.
He surveyed the crowd. Lord Somerville stood in the far corner of the room, talking to a circle of men whom Rafe recognized as his closest political allies. He gestured confidently toward his friends. When someone else spoke, Somerville listened. Sometimes he laughed; sometimes his slight smirk betrayed a stronger emotion.
Somerville was polished, precise. He was only thirty-two, but there were already murmurings that he would be the prime minister someday.
Not, however, if Rafe had anything to say about it.
He flagged down a passing footman and ordered brandy. He’d come to the party with Lord Marsham and his friends. Gaining entry to a party like this one without an invitation was trivially easy for the brother of a duke, but arriving in a group made Rafe less noticeable. Marsham had gone to the card room, ready to gamble away more of his fortune. Rafe had let him go. Now that he had arrived at Somerville House, he was eager to pursue his mission.
He found his quarry easily. Madame Octavia sat on the opposite side of the room from Somerville, holding court in a comfortable circle of chairs and settees. She wore green silk, with a daringly scooped neckline and an astonishing diamond necklace draped around her throat. Her hair was piled on top of her head, gleaming mahogany in the candlelit room.
And she smiled at her guests as though she meant it — as though it was real, not the same façade everyone else had.
Brandy in hand, Rafe watched her as he circled through the crowd and made desultory conversation with his acquaintances. He couldn’t approach her too quickly. He was under strict orders from his army superiors at Whitehall to stay out of politics — British politics, at least — and away from Somerville.
But what Whitehall didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
He should have escorted his younger siblings to Almack’s tonight. For one, he was supposed to be ingratiating himself with Countess Lieven, the wife of the Russian ambassador, who was one of Almack’s patronesses. His siblings had given him an excellent excuse to come back into society. Lady Serena, Lady Portia, and Lord Anthony were twenty-two, twenty, and nineteen, and they were thrilled that Rafe had come back from Spain. Their older brother Gavin, the Duke of Thorington, didn’t escort them to parties as often as he should have.
Which meant that Thorington had never noticed what was clear to Rafe almost immediately — their younger siblings weren’t as accepted by society as they should have been.
They were young, charming, and daring enough to elicit interest without crossing any lines. Serena and Portia were beautiful in very different ways. Anthony was everything a young dandy aspired to be. They were, ostensibly, the children of a duke, with all of Thorington’s money behind them.
The girls should have been engaged by now. Anthony should have been offered a political appointment, unless he preferred to spend his days drinking and riding horses.
But their position was more precarious than that. They were over a decade younger than Thorington and Rafe. Their coloring and mannerisms were completely different, and they’d been born when their parents could hardly stand the sight of each other. Everyone in London knew that their mother, the former duchess, had been packed off to Europe and never seen again as soon as Anthony was born — a damning sign for his paternity.
Rafe’s father, the old duke, had accepted them all. It was perhaps the only good thing he’d ever done for them. Legally, they were children of a duke. Nothing could change that. But the rumors still swirled. And Rafe had seen the effect it had on their relationships.
He’d found Serena crying a month earlier. He usually wasn’t at home in the mornings — he was either still abed, nursing the effects of whatever mischief he’d pursued the night before to build his debauched image, or he was secretly at Whitehall. But he had walked into the library to find a book and instead found Serena sobbing in Portia’s arms.
It must have been serious — the sisters loved each other fiercely, but they usually squabbled more than they comforted each other. Portia had looked up and said, “Shouldn’t you be at your club?”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s her normal monthly moodiness,” Portia said.
Serena raised her face and hit Portia in the arm. “I am not being moody.”
Rafe had dealt with crying women before, but never his sisters. He walked over and knelt beside her. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Serena said.
She rubbed her hands over her eyes. She’d been crying for awhile — her nose was red and her eyes were puffy, and her blonde hair was mussed from Portia’s hug.
“It looks like it matters,” he said. “You know you can trust me with anything.”
“I’d thought this one would come up to scratch,” she said. “But it was stupid of me to inflate my hopes.”
Portia crossed her arms. “It was stupid of him to encourage you,” she said stoutly. “If he had no interest, he shouldn’t have sought the pleasure of your company.”
“But I should have known he wouldn’t want me in the end.”
Rafe frowned. “Who could possibly not want you?”
Serena sniffled. “It doesn’t matter, Rafe. I should have known better than to set my cap for a man who needs a paragon for a wife.”
Serena was intelligent, accomplished, and entirely en vogue with her blonde hair and willowy figure. She’d never put a foot out of place. Her mistakes weren’t her own — they had been made by a mother who valued ephemeral love over duty, and by a father who claimed her but never cared for anyone but himself.
Rafe’s anger grew, but he concealed it. This was a time for softness, not threats. “You are a paragon, Serena,” he said gently. “Any man who doesn’t see it is a fool.”
Her tears flowed again. “Somerville isn’t a fool. He’s a rich marquess who wants to be prime minister. And he said he would be a fool to marry a bastard when he could have anyone else.”
Rafe sat back on his heels. Somerville.
He already had a dim view of the man. Somerville was popular enough, but he had made a name for himself pushing anti-vice legislation through Parliament — the kind of laws that were popular with the middle classes, but mostly targeted the poor while ignoring the vices of everyone else. And he’d done it while keeping a mistress who was the biggest scandal of the day. It was entirely hypocritical to pretend to be against vice, when one’s mistress was the unmarried granddaughter of an earl.
“You can do better than Somerville,” Rafe said dismissively.
That made her cry harder. “But our conversations — he’s so knowledgeable, Rafe. We had such fun talking about politics, and books, and the theatre….”
“And he’s a rich marquess who wants to be prime minister, which is why you noticed him in the first place,” Portia said drily. “I agree with Rafe. You can do better than that.”
“I hope he doesn’t become prime minister,” Serena said. She was still crying, but there was anger in her voice — which meant she would recover, eventually. “Would serve him right to marry some boring girl with perfect lineage and then not get what he wants.”
Rafe had spent the rest of that morning comforting Serena. He’d taken the girls to their modiste, playing the doting brother and buying them both new gowns. They’d gone to Gunter’s for ices, driven through Hyde Park, and eventually danced at three different balls. By dawn the next day, he thought Serena was on her way
to putting Somerville out of her mind — she and Portia sleepily debated the merits of some other young lord on the way back to Thorington House.
But Rafe hadn’t forgotten.
He could give Serena her wish. He could punish Somerville for her. Somerville would never know where the rumors had come from or what he had done to deserve them. But Rafe would know, and that was satisfaction enough.
He had already taken action against Somerville the previous month, and those actions were bearing fruit. He had hired a caricaturist, taking the idea from his work at Whitehall, where they often encouraged caricatures against Napoleon to bolster support for the war. The first caricatures targeting Somerville were already in the shops — and selling well, according to the printer.
In the drawings, Somerville’s mistress, Madame Octavia, stood behind him, whispering in his ear. There were other signals scattered throughout the series, ones that readers of caricatures could interpret easily. Eros, the god of love, shooting Somerville with an arrow. An Amazonian huntress, hinting that Somerville let himself be ruled by a woman. A group of drunken aristocrats in the corner, cavorting with Covent Garden whores. The political message was aimed at men like those in this room. Did they want someone like Somerville — someone who had taken an unmarried, well-born woman as his mistress, and then seemed to defer to her — as their future leader?
But Somerville’s liaison with Madame Octavia wasn’t a secret. Everyone was scandalized — but they were scandalized by Octavia’s behavior, not his. It was the same as with Rafe’s father twenty years earlier. The old duke had been respected by everyone in London. It hadn’t mattered that Rafe’s mother sometimes disappeared for weeks as the bruises the duke had given her healed, or that she sought comfort with other men. People gossiped when the duke abandoned her after she’d produced one bastard too many, but it was the duchess that they shunned. They never stopped inviting him to dinner.
Rafe needed another secret to accomplish his goal. Something bigger.
He’d been on enough missions to know that a woman was often the key to unlocking everything.