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About the Author
Copyright Page
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To Vince, Kate and Adair. Your little family, born from love, is the essence of everything I’m writing about. (Without the murder, obviously.) Love you guys so much and I’m proud to say we’re family.
Acknowledgments
As with every one of my books with St. Martin’s Press, I’m so grateful for the guidance and support of my team there: Holly Ingraham, Jennie Cosway, Marissa Sangiacomo, Meghan Harrington, Jordan Hanley, and I’m sure dozens of other people who work tirelessly behind the scenes.
Thanks also to my lovely and talented agent, Holly Root, who is top ‘o the trees as my Regency heroes would say, and is cheerleader, guide, friend and bulldog all rolled into one tiny charming package.
My fur companions—Charlie, Toast, Stephen Catbert, and Tiny—have kept me company through the writing and editing of this book and are wonderful at reminding me that though I’m a published author now, I’m still required to man the feed bag on a regular basis. Thanks for keeping me humble, you guys.
And finally, to my friend, the inestimable Lindsey Faber, who has saved my bacon more times than I can say. And without whom this book would not have emerged from the creative fires intact. You, madam, are awesome.
Prologue
You will soon embark on a quest for something very valuable, but along the way you will risk losing your greatest love.
MADAME ALBINIA’S FORTUNE FOR LADY DAPHNE FORSYTH
Lady Daphne Forsyth’s boots crunched over the gravel of the drive leading up to the entrance of Beauchamp House as she walked behind the group of men carrying her wounded friend.
Someone had shot Miss Ivy Wareham.
It would have been impossible to believe if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, but even now the sight of a clenched-jawed Lord Kerr, Ivy’s betrothed, walking beside her makeshift litter told her it was all too real. As did the drawn faces of the others who had gone with them today.
It had all begun when the party from Beauchamp House had set out to visit Madame Albinia in the gypsy encampment near Little Seaford.
At first Daphne had assumed Ivy, who along with Daphne and the misses Sophia and Gemma Hastings had inherited Beauchamp House from Lady Celeste Beauchamp, had wished to visit the fortune teller for all the usual reasons. To hear some silly predictions about her future or the like. But as the four ladies, accompanied by Lady Celeste’s nephews, the Marquess of Kerr and the Duke of Maitland, had walked to the edge of the village, Ivy had confided that her reasons for the visit were far more serious.
Lady Celeste had been poisoned to death, and the vehicle for the poison had been the tisane recipe supplied by Madame Albinia to Lady Celeste’s maid.
That her benefactress had been deliberately poisoned was a shock, and it had been the main topic of conversation as they made their way along the path to the village.
All four ladies had been the unexpected heiresses of the late Lady Celeste Beauchamp, who as a scholar herself wished to see her home and extensive library collection go into the hands of those who would make best use of it. The bequest had come as a shock. None of them had met before their arrival at Beauchamp House, and each had dedicated themselves to different scholarly endeavors. But somehow in the time since they’d arrived, they’d managed to become friends.
Daphne had enjoyed the fresh air and the company despite the revelation about Lady Celeste’s death. And if she were honest, she’d also enjoyed the chance to converse with the Duke of Maitland away from the watchful gaze of his sister, who took her job as chaperone quite seriously now that Ivy had been compromised by Lord Kerr.
That is, until on their journey back some unknown person had actually shot at them and wounded Ivy.
As luck would have it, their return had been spotted by young Jeremy Fanning, the son of their chaperone, Lady Serena. At the sight of the injured Ivy, the boy’s eyes widened and he clung to his mother’s skirts. “Mama, what happened?”
“Ivy had a bit of a mishap, old fellow,” said the Duke of Maitland before Lady Serena could respond. Stepping forward to lift the small boy into his arms, he continued, “But she’ll be right as rain in no time. Won’t she, Mama?” This last he addressed to his sister who threw him a grateful glance before rubbing the little boy’s back.
“Of course she will, Uncle Dalton,” she said brightly. “Jem, will you stay with your uncle and the other ladies while Quill and I see to Miss Ivy?”
The boy, whose watchful blue-gray eyes were very like his uncle’s, nodded. “Can we play hide-and-seek, Uncle Dalton?”
“Of course, we can, lad. Ladies, will you join us?”
“I don’t suppose there’s much else we can do at the moment,” Sophia said with a worried glance toward upstairs, where Ivy had been taken.
“And I do love a good game of hide-and-seek,” Gemma said, her cheery tone echoing Lady Serena’s of a moment earlier. “Though if you don’t mind, Jem, could we ladies have a cup of tea before we get started? I think perhaps we can convince cook to send up some tarts as well.”
The mention of treats did the trick with the child, and they all retired to the drawing room for tea and something stronger for those who needed it.
Now some time later, Jem had gone off to hide, while the others set off in separate directions to look for him.
As she turned the corner, lost in her thoughts, Daphne caught her breath as she slammed into a hard male chest.
* * *
“Caught you,” said Maitland with a grin as he grasped her by the elbows. But as soon as he saw her face, his smile faded.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked, still holding her arms.
Unwilling to admit her residual upset, Daphne shook her head. “It’s nothing. And may I remind you, I’m not the one you’re meant to be seeking.”
When he didn’t let her go, she continued, “Let me go, Duke. I am quite well. And don’t need anyone to fuss over me.”
He let go of her but didn’t step away. He was close enough that she could smell the scent of his shaving lotion and see the glint of lamplight on the blond stubble of his beard.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re pretending to be more sanguine about this than you actually are?” His perceptive gaze was narrow, as if he was trying to see into her thoughts.
Not for the first time, Daphne was grateful for the fact that mind-reading had never been perfected. She had a difficult-enough time dealing with the fallout from her spoken words. If her thoughts were subject to the same sort of scrutiny, she’d find herself in a difficult spot indeed.
Since the moment he arrived at Beauchamp House, the handsome duke had drawn Daphne’s interest. Not only because he was a fine specimen of masculine beauty—though he was certainly that with his broad shoulders, tall build, and twinkling blue eyes—but also because of something intangible. It had been there from the moment she’d spied him across the drawing room. Some spark of attraction between them that was unlike anything s
he’d ever felt before.
And that afternoon, she’d almost asked him about it. Daphne was nothing if not plain spoken and to her mind, the most sensible thing to do about the attraction between them was to talk about it and decide if they wished to pursue it.
Of course, her own ideas about what was and was not an appropriate topic of conversation had never been entirely in keeping with what the rest of polite society decreed. Since her arrival at Beauchamp House, Ivy, Sophia, and Gemma had taught her a great deal about what she should and should not say aloud.
Her mother had died when she was only four years old, and the series of nurses and governesses who had been hired by her father had only lasted a short while before they each gave up in defeat. Only the male tutor—an expert in mathematics—had managed to stay for any length of time. And that was perhaps because he saw her not as a young lady, but as a mathematical genius. A mind to be molded rather than a prize to be auctioned off in the marriage mart.
And so, her lessons in gentility had been abandoned in favor of higher maths. Which left her with the ability to solve complex equations more quickly than most Oxbridge fellows and almost no sense of how to speak without setting up the backs of those around her.
The walk to the gypsy encampment had seemed like the perfect opportunity to lay her case before the Duke of Maitland. They might be relatively private without fear of being overheard, and there was no danger he’d mistake her words for a marriage proposal, which was the furthest thing from her mind. But despite her determination to speak, Daphne had found that, once the opportunity presented itself, she was reluctant to broach the subject, her usual sangfroid replaced with a rare shyness. So she’d kept to less-volatile topics and had enjoyed herself immensely on the walk.
Now, however, she was surprised by just how easily Maitland could see past her mask of calm. “I might still be a bit overset,” she admitted. “But I will recover.”
Looking down to where his hands still grasped her arms, she repeated, “You may let me go.”
He let go of her but didn’t step back. “Perhaps I haven’t regained my balance yet, Lady Daphne.”
But that was nonsense.
“Of course you didn’t lose your balance. A man of your size is hardly going to be knocked over by me, tall though I am for a lady.”
Moving to her side, Maitland slid her arm into his. “You are of course correct.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and she was relieved he hadn’t been annoyed by her correction. Sometimes conversation was a trial for Daphne, who wished people would simply say what they meant instead of using metaphors and the like. Turns of phrase made life very frustrating for her.
“Shall we continue down this hall to look for Jem?”
After the events of the day, she was glad to have the company. And perhaps now that they were truly alone she’d be able to speak to him frankly.
“That’s what I was doing before I ran into you,” she said allowing him to lead her past the bust of Mary Wollstonecraft that marked the passage leading to Lady Celeste’s private rooms. “But I shall enjoy the company. Especially after what happened to Ivy.”
“It was distressing, wasn’t it?” he asked, as he moved to open the door to a small sitting room. “Jem?” he called out.
From behind him, Daphne could see that the room was dark and there was no fire in the hearth. None of the heiresses had been willing to take over the mistress of the house’s rooms. Daphne hadn’t had the courage to enter them, so strong was the feeling that Lady Celeste had only gone out for a walk and would return at any minute.
But Maitland, who had run tame in Beauchamp House from childhood, had no such diffidence. He lit the lamp nearest the door and moved to light the other two as well. Soon the cozy room was bright and the shadows that had made it seem gloomy were vanquished.
Daphne could see now that it was a charming space, with butter yellow walls, a pair of comfortable chintz chairs before the fire, and when she stepped closer to look, she saw a basket of mending beside the farthest chair. Something about the needle still plunged into the chemise Celeste had been repairing was more poignant than any of the testaments she’d heard thus far from the people who’d known her.
“This was her inner sanctum,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. She knew, as she moved to look at the shelf of books beside the window, that though the library had been the place where Celeste had placed the books and artwork that would be valued by the world at large, the items here, in this room, were those that meant something to her personally.
“It was,” Maitland said as he moved to stand beside her as she scanned the shelves. “I can remember when I was a boy she would give me adventure novels from these shelves and tell me never to forget that reading was first and foremost for pleasure.”
And indeed, most of the shelves here were the sorts of things that engendered criticism from a certain element of society for whom words were meant only for edification. There were the familiar bindings of Minerva Press, and many other four-volume sets of popular novels as well as what were likely Celeste’s personal copies of Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, and other greats.
“I do wish I’d have been able to meet her,” Daphne said, reaching out to touch the gilded spine of what looked to be a private journal. “I wonder if she’d have found fault with my blunt talk.” It was something she hadn’t meant to reveal—certainly not to the man who made her body tingle whenever he was within arm’s reach, as he was now. But there was something about being here in this room that put her off guard.
“She’d have loved you,” Maitland said, his voice much closer than she’d expected.
Swallowing, she dared a look up at his face and saw that his blue eyes were dark with an emotion she couldn’t name.
“She would have found your forthrightness refreshing,” he continued, reaching out to touch his thumb to her cheek. It was a light caress. A whisper of skin over skin. “And so do I.”
The words hung in the air between them as Daphne tried to process what was happening.
“Do you?” she asked, turning so that she was facing him now, too. “I’m not too rude? Too blunt?”
To her surprise, she found she wanted to know. For some reason, it mattered—mattered desperately—what he thought of her. Whether he was truly not bothered by her tendency to put everyone to the blush.
“No,” he said, his golden head lowering to hers. And just before he pressed his lips against hers, he whispered, “I like it.”
Daphne had been kissed before, but never like this. And never by someone she’d felt such an overwhelming degree of attraction for.
She felt her heart leap up in her chest at the gentle pressure of his mouth, and instincts had her slipping her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her. In answer, he groaned and slipped his hands around her waist.
It was heady, this moment that was at once surrender and vanquishment. And when he pulled her more closely to him and his kiss grew more heated, his mouth opening over hers, she gave herself up to the sensations engulfing her.
But almost as soon as it had begun, he was pulling away from her, and putting a foot of distance between them.
Trying to make her brain work against the flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, she asked in a breathless voice, “Did I do something wrong?” It had seemed as if he was enjoying himself very much. And goodness knows she’d had no objections to the feel of his strong body pressed against hers.
Taking in a gulp of breath, Maitland thrust a hand into his golden curls, already disarrayed from her hands. “No, you were perfect. It’s just that I can’t … that is to say, it wouldn’t be appropriate…”
Ah, this she understood. “Of course, you are worried about the proprieties. It makes sense for a man in your position. But I can assure you that I won’t insist you marry me or any such nonsense. It is perhaps unusual for unmarried young ladies of the ton to take lovers, but hardly unheard of. And I think the attraction between us is unusual
enough that it shouldn’t be ignored.”
But far from agreeing with her as she’d hoped—indeed expected—the duke looked shocked.
The one thing she’d never considered, in all her imaginings of this conversation, was that the object of her desire would have his sense of propriety wounded.
“Lady Daphne,” he said, his deep voice almost hushed, as if he feared they’d be overheard, “I don’t know what sort of man you think I am, but I am not in the habit of deflowering virgins. And I certainly would not do so without doing my duty and paying the consequences for my actions.”
Daphne frowned. “But I just told you that there will be no need to do so. I don’t intend to marry. And I certainly don’t wish to trap you into a marriage simply because we acted on what is a perfectly natural attraction between us. What harm can there be in the two of us indulging in our desires? There’s no one who can be hurt by it as you have no wife. And besides that, I have given you my word I won’t trap you. I don’t see the problem.”
His handsome features twisted in disbelief. “I thought I liked your plain speaking, my dear,” he said, shaking his head, “but I fear I may have been too quick to say so. For there is so much to object to in your little speech that I don’t know where to begin to dispute it.”
Daphne blinked. She hadn’t thought is possible that such a short acquaintance would make her vulnerable to being hurt by anything he said. But by taking back his assurance that he enjoyed her plain speaking—something that was as intrinsic to her as her mathematical abilities—he had hurt her more than she’d ever imagined he could. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to value his opinion. And she’d certainly never imagined he had the power to wound her in this way.
Not wanting to prolong the discussion, she took a deep breath, and with one last quick glance at his lovely face, she straightened her spine.
“I apologize for offending you, your grace. Please think no more of it.”
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