‘Even the life of a marquess has its dark moments.’

Her teasing smile faded and a soft understanding filled her eyes. ‘Everyone’s life does.’

He’d watched stone-faced while mistresses wailed, and had stepped casually to one side to avoid an errant porcelain figure lobbed at him. None of those overwrought reactions had cut him to the core like her simple comment. For the second time in as many minutes the shame of his past gnawed at him before he crushed it down.

‘Good.’ He smiled with more glib humour than he felt, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Because in London I’m a very good acquaintance to have—especially for someone who’s left her reputation across the Atlantic.’

‘I shall keep it in mind. Good evening, Lord Falconbridge.’

She dipped a curtsy and walked off across the room to join a small circle of matrons standing near the window.

He watched her go—the boy in him desperate to call her back...the man he’d become keeping his shoes firmly rooted to the floor.

AUTHOR NOTE

The past and the way it influences and affects the present plays a central role in RESCUED FROM RUIN. Randall and Cecelia’s story has elements of that awkward moment we’ve all faced when we run into an old flame or an ex-best friend during a quick trip to the store wearing our yoga pants. No matter what the reality of our lives at that moment, we want to impress that person from our past and show them how much we’ve changed for the better since they last knew us.

For most of us an unexpected reunion in the produce aisle is something to laugh at afterwards, while vowing never to leave the house without make-up again. However, for Cecelia and Randall, meeting again after ten years forces them to do more than show off. They have to face demons and heartaches they’ve both struggled to forget.

An unexpected reunion with the past is something we can all relate to, and it was fun channelling my own experiences into the story to make that first moment Randall and Cecelia meet again realistic.

Rescued

from Ruin

Georgie Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A dedicated history and film buff, GEORGIE LEE loves combining her passion for Hollywood, history and storytelling through romantic fiction. She began writing professionally at a small TV station in San Diego, before moving to Hollywood to work in the interesting but strange world of the entertainment industry. During her years in La-La Land she never lost her love for romance novels and decided to try writing one herself. To her surprise, a new career was born. When not crafting tales of love and happily-ever-after, Georgie enjoys reading non-fiction history and watching any movie with a costume and an accent.

Please visit www.georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books. She also loves to hear from readers, and you can e-mail her at georgie.lee@yahoo.com

A previous novel by the same author: ENGAGEMENT OF CONVENIENCE

Did you know that this novel is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

I’d like to thank my husband, parents and in-laws for all their support, childcare, dinners, and patience while I worked on this book. I couldn’t have done it without all of you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

London 1816

Randall Cheltenham, Marquess of Falconbridge, looked down the length of the salon, his chest tightening as if hit by a low branch while riding.

Cecelia Thompson stood in the doorway, just as she had so many times in his dreams.

When was the last time he’d seen her? Ten years ago? For ever?

Her eyes met his and the image of her standing in a field, the acrid smell of cut grass and damp earth blending with the warmth of the late afternoon sun, overwhelmed him. He was eighteen again and she was here.

Once, he would have sold his soul for this moment. Now, he waited for the tenuous connection to snap and for her soft look to turn hard with disdain. In his experience, it was a rare woman who forgot past slights. He’d played no small part in her decision to leave England; driving people away was a talent he’d possessed in spades back then.

He stood rock-still, anticipating the sneer, but it never came. Instead her face remained soft, her smile easy and genuine. Her brown hair was a shade darker and her hazel eyes, flecked with green, held something of the girl he’d once known, but with an unmistakable maturity. In other women it made them seem hardened by life, but in Cecelia it increased her beauty, surrounding her with an air of mystery more fascinating than the innocence he remembered so well.

Then old Lord Weatherly shuffled between them to greet her and she looked away.

‘You already know the young woman?’ Madame de Badeau gasped, her thick voice pulling his thoughts back to the room. He looked down at the mature French woman standing beside him in her lavender dress, her dark eyes dancing with the thrill of having discovered something new about him after all their years of acquaintance.

‘If you call conversing with her at my uncle’s estate knowing her,’ he said abruptly, uneasy at the obviousness of his reaction and eager to distract his former lover from it. ‘What’s she doing here? I thought she lived in America?’

‘She’s here to find a husband for the cousin.’

Randall finally noticed the young woman standing beside Cecelia. ‘And her husband is with her?’

‘No. He’s dead.’

Randall’s muscles tightened more at the news than the callous way Madame de Badeau delivered it. Cecelia was here and a widow. He swallowed hard, remembering the night Aunt Ella had told him of Cecelia’s marriage to the colonial landowner, his aunt’s soft words raining down on him like the blows from his father’s belt. The wrenching pain of having lost Cecelia so completely was almost the only thing he remembered from that night. The rest was blurred by the haze of alcohol. It was the last time he’d allowed himself to drink.

‘How do you know Mrs Thompson?’ he asked, looking around the room and accidentally catching the demure Miss Thornton’s eye. Lady Thornton, her dragon of a mother, shifted between them to block his view and he met her warning glare with a mocking grin. He wasn’t about to trouble with a green girl. They weren’t worth the effort, not with so many willing widows aching to catch his notice.

‘Cecelia’s mother and I attended the same ladies’ school in France, the one your aunt attended when your grandfather was ambassador there. Cecelia’s family was in the silk trade, quite wealthy at the time. They did a great deal of business with my father, back when the country was civilised. Dreadful revolutionaries.’

He clasped his hands behind his back, uneasy at the idea of Madame de Badeau having any connection with Cecelia, no matter how tenuous. ‘It’s difficult to imagine you in a ladies’ school.’

‘I had my pleasures there, too. Ah, the curiosities of young girls. Most delightful.’ She swept her fingers over the swell of breasts pressing against her bodice, adjusting the diamond necklace resting in the crevice of flesh. Though old enough to be Cecelia’s mother, Madame de Badeau was still a stunning woman with a smooth face and lithe body. Young lords new to London often fell prey to her beauty and other, more carnal talents.

He glanced at the full bosom, then met her eyes. His passion for her had faded long ago, but he maintained the friendship because she amused him. ‘And now?’

She snapped open her fan and waved it over her chest in short flicks. ‘I’m helping her launch her cousin in society.’

‘Why? You never help anyone.’

Madame de Badeau’s smile drew tight at the corners before she covered her irritation with a light laugh. ‘Lord Falconbridge, how serious you are tonight.’ Her hand slid around his arm, coiling in the crook of his elbow like a snake. ‘Now, let me reacquaint you with the little widow.’

They strode across the room, past the pianoforte where Miss Marianne Domville, Madame de Badeau’s much younger sister, played, her head bent over the keys, indifferent to the crowd of young bucks surrounding her. The room hummed with the usual assortment of intellectuals and friends Lady Weatherly regularly gathered for her salons. Randall cared as much for them as the poet in the corner sighing out his latest drivel. Only Cecelia mattered and he focused on her, wondering what she would think of him after all these years. Madame de Badeau must have told her of his reputation and all the scandals surrounding him. The woman took pride in spreading the stories.

Of all the disapproving looks he’d ever caught in a room like this, Cecelia’s would matter the most.

He ground his teeth, the failings he’d buried with his father threatening to seize him again. A footman carrying a tray of champagne flutes crossed their path, the amber liquid tempting Randall for the first time in ten years. He ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, wanting to take one smooth stem in his hand and tip the sharp liquid over his tongue, again and again, until everything inside him faded.

Instead he continued forward, shoving down the old craving and all the emotions fuelling it.

They passed a clutch of whispering ladies, the women’s fans unable to muffle their breathy exclamations as they watched him.

‘...he won a duel against Lord Calverston, drawing first blood...’

‘...he and Lady Weatherly were lovers last Season...’

He pinned them with a hard look and their voices wilted like their folding fans.

As he and Madame de Badeau approached Cecelia, Lord Weatherly took his leave and Cecelia’s eyes found his again. An amused grin raised the corner of her lips, almost bringing him to a halt. It was the same smile she used to taunt him with across the card table at Falconbridge Manor. Back then, she could send him into stutters with a look, playing him like Miss Domville played the pianoforte, but not any more. No one could manipulate him now.

‘My dear Mrs Thompson, I’m sure you remember Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau introduced, a strange note of collusion in her voice, as though she and Randall shared a secret of which Cecelia was not aware. Randall narrowed his eyes at the Frenchwoman, wondering what she was about, before Cecelia’s soft voice captured his attention.

‘Lord Falconbridge, it’s been too long.’ The hint of a colonial twang coloured the roll of his title across her tongue, conflicting with the tones he remembered so well.

‘Much too long.’ He bowed, taking in the length of her body draped in a deep red dress. Cut straight across the bodice, the gown was modestly high by London standards, but still displayed the white tops of her pert breasts. He longed to drop light kisses on the tempting mounds, to find a secluded bedroom where they might while away the evening in more pleasurable pursuits, finishing what they’d started so long ago.

He straightened, hating the vulnerability in this wanting. ‘My condolences on the loss of your husband.’

‘Thank you.’ She fingered the gold bracelet on her wrist, her smile fading before she bolstered it and motioned to the young woman standing beside her. ‘Allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Theresa Fields.’

With reluctance, Randall tore his eyes away to take in the cousin. She was pretty, but not ravishing, and met his appraising look with an air of confidence most green girls lacked. Her dress was made of fine cotton, but simply cut and lacking the ruffles and ribbons preferred by the other young ladies this Season.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Falconbridge,’ she replied, the Virginia twang strong in her speech.

‘Miss Fields, I know my sister is dying to see you again.’ Madame de Badeau took Miss Fields by the arm and drew her out from between Cecelia and Randall. Madame de Badeau threw him a conspiratorial look as she passed, as though leaving them alone together in a bedroom and expecting nature to take its course. He wondered what scheme she had in mind for him and Cecelia. Whatever it was, she was mistaken if she thought to manipulate him like one of her country lords new to London.

‘You’re the Marquess of Falconbridge now?’ Cecelia asked, her voice flowing over him like the River Stour over the rocks at Falconbridge Manor and all thoughts of Madame de Badeau vanished.

‘Yes, Uncle Edmund couldn’t keep it for ever.’

‘My condolences on your loss,’ she offered with genuine concern. ‘I remember him fondly.’

‘You were one of the few people he truly liked.’

‘Then I’m even sorrier to hear of his passing.’

‘Don’t be.’ Randall smirked. ‘He died as he lived, with a large appetite for the pleasures of life.’

‘And no doubt still railing against society. What is it he used to say?’

‘“Nothing to be gained by chasing society’s good opinion”,’ Randall repeated Uncle Edmund’s words, remembering the old man sitting at the head of the table thumping his large fingers against the lacquered top. ‘“All it does is make you a slave to their desires and whims”—’

‘“Be your own man and you’ll be the better for it”,’ she finished, her voice deepening to mimic Uncle Edmund’s imperious tone.

Randall laughed at the accurate impression. ‘I wanted to engrave it on his headstone, but Aunt Ella wouldn’t allow it. She said it wasn’t how she wanted to remember her brother.’

‘How is Lady Ellington?’ Cecelia accepted a glass of champagne from a footman.

‘She’s quite the mistress of Falconbridge Manor.’ Randall waved away the offered drink, making Cecelia’s eyebrows rise in surprise. ‘She decided to live there after Uncle Edmund passed. It amuses her to manage the house.’

‘Will she come to London for the Season?’ There was no mistaking the eagerness in her voice and it grieved him to disappoint her.

‘Aunt Ella is as likely to venture to town as Uncle Edmund was to live as a respectable country gentleman.’

‘Nor are you likely to live so quiet a life. I hear enough stories about you to make your uncle proud.’ She touched the glass to her full lips and tilted it, letting the shimmering liquid slide into her mouth.

He focused on her moist lips, almost jealous of the glass. ‘As Uncle Edmund also used to say, a touch of scandal lends a man a little mystery.’

Cecelia laughed, wiping away a small drop of champagne from the corner of her mouth. ‘From what Madame de Badeau tells me, you have more than a touch.’

He stiffened, struggling to hold his smile. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, especially from her.’

‘Do my ears deceive me or is the notorious Marquess of Falconbridge embarrassed?’ she gasped in mock surprise and Randall’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had dared to tease him like this.

‘Do you have a reputation, Mrs Thompson?’ he asked, determined to take back the conversation, the old familiarity too easy between them.

Darkness flickered through her eyes and she fiddled with her gold bracelet, turning it on her wrist. Whatever suddenly troubled her, he thought it would bring the discussion to an end. Then she raised her face, bravely meeting his scrutiny, her smile alight with mischief. ‘If I do, it is far behind me in Virginia and unlikely to be discovered until well after the Season.’

He stepped closer, inhaling her warm skin combined with a heady, floral scent he couldn’t name. ‘Perhaps I may discover it sooner?’

She met his low voice with a heated look from beneath dark lashes. ‘Only if you have a very fast ship.’

‘My ship is never fast, but lingers upon the salty water,’ he murmured, his body tightening with desire. ‘I’d be most happy to take you sailing.’

Her tongue slid over her parted lips, moistening the red bud, daring him to be bold and accept the invitation in her eyes. Then, like a wave rushing out to sea, the hungry look disappeared, replaced by her previous mirthful smile. ‘A very tempting offer, but I fear being disappointed so early in the Season.’

Randall coughed to suppress a laugh and a bitter sense of loss. ‘The Season will disappoint a spirited woman like you much quicker than I.’

‘After enduring such a difficult crossing, I can only hope you’re wrong.’

‘I’m never wrong.’

‘Then you’re a very fortunate man.’

‘Not entirely.’ For a brief moment, the hard shell he’d cultivated since coming to Town dropped and he was simply Randall again, alone with her in the Falconbridge study, free of a title and all his London escapades. ‘Even the life of a Marquess has its dark moments.’

Her teasing smile faded and a soft understanding filled her eyes. ‘Everyone’s life does.’

He’d watched stone-faced while mistresses wailed on their chaises and stepped casually to one side to avoid the errant porcelain figure lobbed at him. None of these overwrought reactions cut him to the core like her simple comment. For the second time in as many minutes, the shame of his past gnawed at him before he crushed it down.

‘Good.’ He smiled with more glib humour than he felt, clasping his hands behind his back. ‘Because in London, I’m a very good acquaintance to have, especially for someone who’s left her reputation across the Atlantic.’

‘I shall keep it in mind. Good evening, Lord Falconbridge.’

She dipped a curtsy and walked off across the room to join a small circle of matrons standing near the window.

He watched her go, the boy in him desperate to call her back, the man he’d become keeping his shoes firmly rooted to the floor.

‘Quite the morsel, isn’t she?’ a deep voice drawled from beside him, and Randall’s lip curled in disgust. Christopher Crowdon, Earl of Strathmore, stood next to him, a glass of claret in his thick fingers.

‘Careful how you speak of her, Strathmore,’ Randall growled, hating the way Strathmore eyed her like a doxy in a bawdy house. ‘She’s an old acquaintance of mine.’

‘My apologies,’ Strathmore mumbled, trilling his fingers against the glass, a rare fire in his pale eyes as he studied Cecelia. ‘Is it true she has extensive lands in the colonies?’

‘Why? Are you in such dire straits as to chase after heiresses?’

‘Of course not,’ he sputtered, the claret sloshing perilously close to the side of the glass before he recovered himself. ‘But there’s something to be said for a widow. They know the way of things, especially when it comes to men. Best to leave such a prize to a more experienced gentleman.’

‘Should I find one, I’ll gladly step aside.’ Randall turned on one heel and strode away.

* * *

Cecelia stood with the other matrons, trying to concentrate on the on dit, but she couldn’t. Randall’s rich voice carried over the hum of conversation and she tightened her grip on the champagne glass, willing herself not to look at him.

When she’d first seen him standing in the centre of the room, as sturdy as a wide oak in the middle of a barren field, she’d been torn between fleeing and facing him. The girl who’d once pressed him about their future together in the Falconbridge conservatory, only to be sneered at by a man unwilling to debase the family name with a poor merchant’s daughter, wanted to flee. The woman who’d helped her husband rebuild Belle View after the hurricane demanded she hold steady. The wealth and plantation might be gone, but the woman it had made her wasn’t and she’d wanted him to see it.

She finished the drink, the biting liquid as bitter as her present situation. Despite her time at Belle View, she’d returned to London no richer than when she’d left, her future more uncertain now than it had been the day she’d climbed aboard the ship to Virginia, the husband by her side as much of a stranger as the people in this room. She might shine with confidence in front of Randall, but everything else—the land in the colonies and her wealth—was a lie. She wondered how long her fine wardrobe and the width of the Atlantic would conceal her secret and the nasty rumours she’d left behind in Virginia. Hopefully long enough for either her or her cousin Theresa to make a match which might save them.

She deposited the empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing footman, the crystal clinking against the metal. As the footman reached out to steady it, she glanced past him to where Randall stood with a group of gentlemen, his square jaw and straight nose defined as much by his dark hair as the practised look of London ennui. Then he turned, his blue eyes meeting hers with a fierceness she could almost feel. Her thumb and fingers sought out the gold bracelets on her wrist while her lungs struggled to draw in an even breath. For a moment she was sixteen again, desiring him beyond reason, and nothing, not the long years of her marriage or the hours she’d spent managing Belle View, seemed to matter. She’d loved him, craved him, needed him, and in the end he hadn’t experienced the same depth of feeling for her.

She looked away, shaken by how, after all these years, he could still needle her, and chastising herself for speaking so freely with him tonight. No matter how easy it was to tease and flirt with him as she used to, she couldn’t afford to be bold with a man like him. It might ruin her.

‘Mrs Thompson, I hear you’ve been living in America,’ a woman’s distant voice intruded, snapping Cecelia’s attention back to the circle of ladies.

‘Yes. I have a plantation in Virginia.’ Her stomach tightened with the lie.

‘What brings you and Miss Fields back to London after all this time?’ Lady Weatherly asked.

Cecelia met their curious looks, the same awkwardness that nearly stole her tongue the night Daniel had presented her to the Richmond families at the Governor’s ball stealing over her. She squared her shoulders now as she had then, defiant against her unease and their scrutiny. ‘I brought my cousin back to London in the hope of seeing her settled.’

‘Did she not have suitors in Virginia?’ Lady Weatherly pressed like a small terrier determined to dig out a rat and Cecelia bit back the desire to tell the Countess to keep to her own affairs. Despite a dubious reputation, the statuesque young woman draped in gauzy silk was a fixture of society whose good opinion Cecelia needed to keep. Swallowing her pride, Cecelia repeated the story she and Theresa had practised during the crossing.

‘She did, but when the British burned Washington, we were no longer warmly received, despite having known many of the families for years. It wasn’t suitable for her to look for suitors under such hostile circumstances. When I suggested a Season in London, she was thrilled with the chance to come home.’

‘Speaking of gentlemen—’ Lady Weatherly waved away her interest in Cecelia with one gloved hand ‘—here is Lord Strathmore.’

‘Good evening ladies.’ Lord Strathmore bowed before fixing Cecelia with a smile more snakelike than charming. ‘Mrs Thompson, would you care to join me for some refreshment?’

‘Thank you, but I have no appetite tonight.’ His smile faltered and she widened hers. She didn’t relish the Earl’s company, but it would prove less irksome than Lady Weatherly’s questions. ‘If you’d care to escort me to the pianoforte, I’d like to see how my cousin is faring.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

As she and Lord Strathmore crossed the room, she hazarded a glance at Randall, startled by the glare he fixed on Lord Strathmore. As fast as the look came it was gone and he turned back to the man next to him and resumed his conversation.

Cecelia wondered what about the man raised Randall’s hackles. Lord Strathmore had no reputation she could discern, or none Madame de Badeau had seen fit to reveal, and the woman delighted in revealing a great many things about a number of people.

‘May I be so bold as to say how radiant you look tonight?’ Lord Strathmore complimented, his serpentlike smile returning to draw up the small bit of skin beneath his round chin.

‘You’re too generous.’ She untwisted the strap of her fan, shaking off the strange reaction to his look. With so many things worrying her, she must only be seeing trouble where none existed.

‘Madame de Badeau tells me you have no horse in London at your disposal.’

‘No. I had to leave my beautiful horse in Virginia.’ Anger burned through her at the thought of the stables, Daniel’s stables, the ones he’d worked so hard to establish, now under the control of her selfish stepson Paul.

‘It’d be my pleasure to accompany you and your cousin in Rotten Row. I keep a few geldings in London suitable for ladies to ride.’

‘You’re most kind.’ The idea of riding properly in Rotten Row beside Lord Strathmore dampened her enthusiasm. However, borrowing horses from his stable would spare her the expense of hiring them and allow her and Theresa to be seen during the fashionable hour.

Cecelia stepped up to the pianoforte and touched Theresa’s elbow. Her cousin turned, frowning at Lord Strathmore, and Cecelia shot her a warning look. In their present situation, Cecelia didn’t have the luxury to refuse any man’s attention. Except Randall’s.

Only then did she notice the absence of his voice beneath the melody of the pianoforte. She glanced around the room, expecting to meet his silent stare, but saw nothing except the other guests mingling. Relief filled her, followed by disappointment. He was gone, his conversation and interest in her as finished tonight as it was ten years ago. Yet something about their exchange continued to trouble her. Beneath Randall’s rakish smile and desire to capture her notice, she’d sensed something else, something all too familiar. Pain.

Polite applause marked the end of Miss Domville’s piece and Cecelia clapped along with the two young men standing on the other side of the instrument.

‘Play again, Miss Domville,’ Lord Bolton, the taller of the two, urged. ‘We so enjoy your fingerwork.’

Instead of blushing, Miss Domville rose and coolly lowered the cover on the keys.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with your own fingerwork for the rest of the evening,’ she answered in a sweet voice before coming around the piano and taking Theresa by the arm. ‘Miss Fields and I are going to take a turn around the room so we may discuss all of you in private. May we, Mrs Thompson?’

Cecelia studied Miss Domville, debating the wisdom of letting Theresa associate with such a bold young woman. However, Miss Domville’s sense of confidence and the gentlemen’s sudden notice of Theresa overcame her doubts. ‘Of course.’

‘Wonderful. We’ll discuss how much we dislike London.’ Miss Domville led Theresa away, chatting merrily, and Cecelia noticed the genuine enjoyment spreading over her cousin’s face.

If only all our worries could be so easily soothed.

Lord Strathmore lingered beside her and she struggled to ignore her discomfort as she faced him. ‘Tell me about your horses.’

He spoke more to her bosom than her face as he launched into a droll description of his stables. She forced herself to appear impressed, rubbing the gold bracelet again and hating this act. Speaking with him was like stepping up on the bidding block to be inspected by the first man who showed a modicum of interest in her. It made her feel cheap and deceitful, but what choice did she have?

The memory of Randall’s hooded eyes teasing her sent a wave of heat across her skin and her fingers stopped.

Yes, there was another option, the same one General LaFette had suggested when he’d cornered her at the Governor’s picnic, eyeing her breasts the way Lord Strathmore did now, but she refused to entertain it. She hadn’t scorned one man’s offer only to take up another’s. She wasn’t so desperate, at least not yet.

Chapter Two

‘Good evening, my lord,’ Mr Joshua, the wiry young valet, greeted as Randall entered his bedroom. ‘You’re in early tonight.’

‘So it seems.’ Randall stood still while Mr Joshua removed his coat, the skin along the back of his neck tightening as a chill deeper than the cool night air crossed him. He moved closer to the marble fireplace, the warmth of it doing little to ease the lingering tightness from his encounter with Cecelia.

She was back, the wealth and confidence of her experiences in Virginia circling her like her perfume, making her more beautiful then when she’d stood before him as a young girl with the weight of sorrow on her shoulders.

It seemed marriage had benefited her.

He grabbed the poker from the stand and banged it against the coals, trying to ignite the heat smouldering in their centres. A splash of sparks jumped in the grate, followed by a few large flames.

He didn’t doubt she’d benefited from the marriage. She’d practically rushed at the colonial after Aunt Ella made the introduction, fleeing from Randall and England as fast as the ship could carry her.

She’d escaped her troubles, and left Randall behind to be tortured by his.

He returned the poker to the stand, his anger dying down like the flames.

After everything that had passed between them, when he’d been foolish enough tonight to show weakness, she hadn’t belittled him. Instead she’d displayed an understanding he hadn’t experienced since coming to London. Considering the way they’d parted, it was much more than he deserved.

The squeak of hinges broke the quiet and the bedroom door opened.

‘Hello, Reverend.’ Randall dropped to one knee and held out his arms.

The black hunting dog ran to him, his long tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. Randall rubbed Reverend’s back and the dog’s head stretched up to reveal the wide band of white fur under his neck. ‘And where have you been?’

‘Probably in the kitchen hunting for scraps again,’ Mr Joshua answered for the dog while he brushed out Randall’s coat.

‘I’ll hear about it from cook tomorrow.’ Randall scratched behind the dog’s ears, the familiar action soothing away the old regrets and torments.

‘A message arrived while you were gone.’ Mr Joshua held out a rose-scented note, a cheeky smile on his young face. ‘It seems Lady Weatherly is eager to renew last Season’s acquaintance.’

Randall’s calm disappeared. He stood and took the note, skimming the contents, the sentiments as trite as the perfume clinging to the envelope.

‘Good dalliance, that one. Obliging old husband with more interest in the actresses of Drury Lane than his wife,’ Mr Joshua observed with his usual candour. No one else in London was as honest with Randall as the valet. Randall had encouraged it from the beginning when he’d taken the labourer’s son into his service and saved his family from ruin. ‘Lord Weatherly isn’t likely to object to your lordship’s continued acquaintance with his wife.’

‘Yes, but I’ve had enough of Lady Weatherly.’ Randall tossed the paper in the grate. ‘If she calls again, tell her I’m engaged.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Randall leaned against the mantel, watching the letter curl and blacken. He dropped one hand to his side and Reverend slid his head beneath it. Randall rubbed the dog behind his ears, despising Lady Weatherly and all those of her ilk. They never flattered him without an eye to what they could gain. Yet he tolerated them, enjoyed what they eagerly gave because they demanded nothing more of him than the esteem of being his lover.

The image of Cecelia danced before him, her lively voice ringing in his ears. She’d entered Lady Weatherly’s salon, a butterfly amid too many moths, standing alone in her beauty while the rest flapped around the candles. She didn’t need light, it was in her eyes, her smile, the melody of her voice, just as it was ten years ago. Her responses to his amorous suggestions were playful and daring, but tinged with an innocence women like Madame de Badeau and Lady Weatherly had abandoned long ago. He grieved to think what London might do to her. What had it done to him? Nothing he hadn’t wholeheartedly embraced from his first day in town. Nothing his father hadn’t feared he’d do.

You’re as bad as your uncle, his father’s deep voice bellowed through the quiet, and the faint scar on his back from where his father’s belt used to strike him began to itch.

Randall closed his eyes, seeing again his father waiting for him in the vicarage sitting room, the darkness of the window behind him broken by small drops of rain flickering with the firelight.

You think your Uncle Edmund has all the answers, but he hasn’t, his father sneered from his chair. All his wine and women, they’re only to fill the emptiness of his life. You can’t see it now, but some day you will, when your own life is as hollow as his.

At least he accepts me, Randall spat, his uncle’s port giving him courage, anger giving him words. Reverend stood next to him, the puppy’s tense body pressed against his leg.

I’m hard on you for your own good. He slammed his fist against the chair, then gripped the arm as a raspy cough racked his body. He stood, his skin ashen, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a few ragged breaths as he steadied himself.

Randall braced himself for the usual onslaught of insults, but when his father opened his eyes they were soft with a concern Randall had only experienced a handful of times, yet every day craved. I want you to be more of a man than Edmund. I want to know your mother’s death to bring you into this world was worth it.

His father’s eyes drifted to the portrait of Randall’s mother hanging across the room, the concern replaced by the constant sadness Randall loathed, the one which always pulled his father away. Randall tightened his hands at his side, wanting to rip the portrait from the wall and fling it in the fire. Why? No matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.

And what do you do? Drink with your uncle without a thought for me. His father’s face hardened with disgust. You’re selfish, that’s what you are, only ever thinking of yourself and your future riches instead of being here and tending to the vicarage like a proper son.

Randall dropped his hand on Reverend’s head, anger seething inside him. He’d obeyed his father for years, taken every insult heaped on him and more, thinking one day the old man would look at him with the same affection he saved for the portrait, but he hadn’t, and tonight Randall realised he never would. I’m not staying here any longer. Uncle Edmund has invited me to live at the manor. I’m going there and I’m not coming back.

You think because you’ll be a Marquess some day, you’re too good for a simple vicarage. Well, you’re not. His father snatched the poker from the fireplace and Randall took a step back. You think I don’t know how you and my brother laugh at me, how you mocked me when you named that wretched dog he gave you.

He levelled the poker at Reverend and a low growl rolled through the gangly puppy.

Well, no more, his father spat. You killed the one person I loved most in this world, then turned my brother and sister against me. You have no idea how it feels to lose so much, but you will when I take away something you love. He focused on Reverend and raised the poker over his head.

No! Randall rushed at his father, catching the poker just as his father brought it down, the hard metal slamming into his palm and sending a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He tried to wrench the iron from his father’s hand, but the old man held on tight, fighting with a strength fuelled by hate. Reverend’s sharp barks pierced the room as Randall shoved his father against the wall, his other arm across his chest, pinning him like a wild animal until his father’s fingers finally opened and the poker clattered to the floor.

I hate you. You killed her, he hissed before the deep lines of his face softened, his jaw sagged open and his body slumped forward on to Randall’s chest.

Randall struggled to hold his father’s limp weight as he lowered him to the floor, then knelt next to him, panic replacing his anger as he patted his face, trying to rouse him. Father? Father?

A faint gurgle filled his father’s throat before his eyes focused on Randall’s. Reverend whimpered behind him, as if he, too, sensed what was coming.

Father, forgive me, Randall pleaded.

You aren’t worthy— he slurred before his head dropped forward and he slumped to the side.

The room went quiet, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and Reverend’s panting.

Randall rose, stumbling backwards before gripping a table to steady himself. Reverend came to sit beside him and he dropped his hand on the dog’s soft head. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I didn’t mean to— kill him.

A gust of wind blew a fury of raindrops against the window, startling Randall. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get help, to tell Aunt Ella and Uncle Edmund.

The poker lay on the floor next to the wrinkled edge of the rug. With a trembling hand, he picked it up and returned it to the holder. With the toe of one boot, he straightened the rug, careful not to look at the dark figure near the white wall. Then he turned and left, Reverend trotting beside him out into the icy rain.

* * *

Randall opened his eyes and knelt down next to Reverend, rubbing the dog’s back, struggling to calm the guilt tearing through him. He’d walked through the freezing rain back to the manor, then stood dripping and shivering as he’d told Aunt Ella he’d come home to find his father collapsed. The doctor had said it was his father’s heart that had killed him. Randall had never told anyone the truth, except Cecelia.

His hands stopped rubbing Reverend and the dog licked his fingers, eager for more. Randall noticed with a twinge of sadness the grey fur around Reverend’s black muzzle. ‘I wonder if you’d remember her.’

‘Did you say something, my lord?’ Mr Joshua asked.

‘No, nothing.’

The small clock on the side table chimed a quarter past twelve.

‘Will you be going out again tonight, my lord?’

‘Perhaps.’ Randall stood, shaking off the memories, but the old emotions hovered around him, faint and fading like the waking end of a dream: vulnerability, uncertainty, innocence, regret. In the end, he’d driven Cecelia away, too horrified by what he’d done to keep close the one person who knew his secret. His father had never forgiven him. Would Cecelia have forgiven him back then? He’d never had the courage to ask her.

‘Keeping such hours, society will think you’ve gone respectable,’ Mr Joshua joked, ‘then every matron with a marriageable daughter will be here at the door. I’ll have so many cards stacked up we won’t need kindling all winter.’

Randall frowned, hearing the truth in his jest. No, he wasn’t going to spend the night wallowing in the past like his father used to do. Those days were far behind him, just like his relationship with Cecelia. At the end of that summer, they’d both made their choices. He refused to regret his.

‘I’m going to my club.’ He patted Reverend, then flicked his hand at the bed. ‘Up you go.’

The dog jumped up on the wide bed, turning around before settling into the thick coverlet, watching as Mr Joshua helped Randall on with his coat.

Randall straightened the cravat in the mirror, then headed for the door. ‘Don’t expect me back until morning.’

* * *

Cecelia sat in the turned-wood chair next to the small fireplace in her bedroom, staring at the dark fireback. Still dressed in her evening clothes, she shivered, having forgotten how cold London could be even in the spring, but she didn’t burn any coal. She couldn’t afford it.

She closed her eyes and thought of the warm Virginia nights heavy with moisture, the memory of the cicadas’ songs briefly drowning out the clop of carriage horses on the street outside.

The sound drew her back to Lady Weatherly’s and the sight of Randall approaching from across the salon. He’d moved like the steady current of the James River, every step threatening to shatter her calm like a tidal surge driven inland by a hurricane. She’d known he’d be there tonight. Madame de Badeau had mentioned it yesterday, leaving Cecelia to imagine scenario after scenario of how they might meet. Not once did she picture his blue eyes tempting her with the same desire she used to catch in the shadowed hallways of Falconbridge Manor. Back then every kiss was stolen, each moment of pleasure fumbling and uncertain.

There was nothing uncertain about Randall tonight, only a strength emphasised by his broad shoulders and the height he’d gained since she’d last seen him. Her body hummed with the memory of him standing so close, his musky cologne and hot breath tempting her more than his innuendoes and illicit suggestions. Yet she’d caught something else hovering in the tension beneath his heated look—a frail connection she wanted to touch and hold.

She opened her eyes and smacked her hand hard against the chair’s arm, the sting bringing her back to her senses. There’d never been a connection between them, only the daydreams of a girl too naive to realise a future Marquess would never lower himself to save her. He hadn’t then and, with all his wealth and privilege, he certainly wouldn’t now, no matter how many tempting suggestions he threw her way. No, he would be among the first to laugh and sneer if the truth of her situation was ever revealed, and if she could help it, it never would be.

She slid off the chair and knelt before the small trunk sitting at the end of the narrow bed, her mother’s trunk, the only piece of furniture she’d brought back to London. The hinges squeaked as she pushed opened the lid, the metal having suffered the ill effects of sea air on the voyage from Virginia. Inside sat a bolt of fabric, a jumble of tarnished silver, a small box of jewellery and a stack of books. It was the sum of her old possessions and the few items of value she’d managed to secrete from Belle View after Paul had taken control. They sat in the trunk like a skeleton in its coffin, reminding her of everything she’d ever lost. For a brief moment, she wished the whole lot had fallen overboard, but she needed them and the money they could bring.

She pushed aside the silver, the metal clanking as she lifted out one large book on hunting from beneath a stack of smaller ones. It had been Daniel’s favourite and the only one she’d taken for sentimental reasons. She opened it and, with a gloved finger, traced a beautiful watercolour of a duck in flight, remembering how Daniel used to sit in his study, his brown hair flecked with grey falling over his forehead as he examined each picture.

Guilt edged her grief. In the end, this book would probably have to be sold, too.

She snapped it shut and laid it in the trunk next to the velvet case that had once held the gold bracelet she wore. It had been a gift from her father, given to her the Christmas before his ship had sunk off the coast of Calais, taking with it his life and the merchandise he’d needed to revive his business. Moving aside the silk, she caught sight of the small walnut box in the corner. She reached for it, then pulled back, unable to open it and look at the wispy curl, the precious reminder of her sweet baby boy.

Squeezing her eyes tight against the sudden rush of tears, she fought back the sob rising in her throat and burning her chest with grief. Her hands tightened on the edges of the trunk, the weave of her silk gloves digging into her fingertips. Loss, always loss. Her father, her mother, her infant son, Daniel... Would it never end?

She pounded one fist against the open trunk lid, then sat back on her heels, drawing in breath after breath, her body shaking with the effort to stop the tears.

Why did she have to suffer when people like Randall found peace? Why?

A knock made her straighten and she rubbed her wet face with her hands as the bedroom door opened.

Theresa appeared, a wrapper pulled tight around her nightdress. ‘I heard a noise. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ She looked away, trying to hide her tears, but Theresa saw them.

‘You aren’t missing Daniel, are you?’ The girl knelt next to her and threw her arms around Cecelia.

‘No, I’m angry with him.’ Cecelia pulled herself to her feet, not wanting anyone’s pity or comfort tonight, not even Theresa’s. ‘When he recovered from the fever eight years ago, I asked him, begged him to write his will, to provide for me, not leave me at the mercy of Paul, but he wouldn’t. All his superstitions about making a will inviting death, his always putting it off until next month, next year until it was too late. Now, we’re lost.’

‘We aren’t lost yet.’

‘Aren’t we?’ She slammed the lid down on the trunk. ‘You saw everyone tonight, treating us like nothing more than colonial curiosities. How they’ll laugh when the money runs out, scorn us the way Paul did when he evicted us from Belle View and refused to pay my widow’s portion. Not one of them will care if we starve.’

Theresa fingered the wrapper sash. ‘I think one person will care.’

‘You mean Lord Strathmore?’ Cecelia pulled off the damp gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. ‘It seems I can attract nothing but men like him and General LaFette.’

‘I didn’t mean Lord Strathmore. I meant Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia gaped at Theresa. The memory of Randall standing so close, his mouth tight as he spoke of the difficulties of life flashed before her. Then anger shattered the image. She shouldn’t have bothered to comfort him. He wouldn’t have done the same for her. ‘I assure you, he’ll be the first to laugh at us.’

‘I don’t believe it. I saw the way he watched you tonight. Miss Domville did, too. She said he’s never looked at a woman the way he looked at you.’

‘I hardly think Miss Domville is an expert on Lord Falconbridge.’ Cecelia crossed her arms, more against the flutter in her chest than the ridiculous turn of the conversation. ‘And be careful what you tell her. We can’t have anyone knowing our situation, especially not Madame de Badeau.’

For all the Frenchwoman’s friendliness, Cecelia wondered if the lady’s offer to introduce Cecelia and Theresa to society had an ulterior motive, though what, she couldn’t imagine.

‘I don’t like her and I don’t like Lord Strathmore.’ Theresa wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s worse than General LaFette. Always staring at your breasts.’

‘Yet he’s the man we may have to rely on to save us.’ She paced the room, the weight of their lot dragging on her like the train of her dress over the threadbare rug. She stopped at the window, moving aside the curtain to watch the dark street below. ‘Maybe I should have accepted General LaFette’s offer. At least then we could have stayed in Virginia.’

‘I’d starve before I’d let you sell yourself to a man like him,’ Theresa proclaimed.

Cecelia whirled on her cousin. ‘Why? Didn’t I sell myself once before to keep out of the gutter?’

‘But you loved Daniel, didn’t you?’ Theresa looked stricken, just as she had the morning Cecelia and Daniel had met the newly orphaned girl at the Yorktown docks, her parents, Cecelia’s second cousins, having perished on the crossing.

Cecelia wanted to lie and soothe her cousin’s fears, allow her to hold on to this one steady thing after almost two years of so much change, but she couldn’t. She’d always been honest with the girl who was like a daughter to her and she couldn’t deceive her now.

‘Not at first,’ she admitted, ashamed of the motives which drove her to accept the stammering proposal of a widower twenty years older than her with a grown son and all his lands half a world away. ‘The love came later.’

Yet for all her tying herself to a stranger to keep from starving, here she was again, no better now than she’d been the summer before she’d married. Even Randall had reappeared to taunt her and remind her of all her failings.

She dropped down on the lumpy cushion in the window seat, anger giving way to the despair she’d felt so many times since last spring when General LaFette had begun spreading his vicious rumours. The old French General had asked her to be his mistress. When she’d refused, he’d ruined her with his lies. How easily the other plantation families had believed him, but she’d made the mistake of never really getting to know them. Belle View was too far from all the others to make visiting convenient, and though Daniel was sociable, too many times he’d preferred the quiet of home to parties and Williamsburg society.

‘Now I understand why Mother gave up after Father died.’ She sighed, staring down at the dark cobblestone street. ‘I had to deal with the creditors then, too, handing them the silver and whatever else I could find just so we could live. I used to hide it from her, though I don’t know why. She never noticed. I don’t even think she cared.’

‘She must have.’ Theresa joined her on the thin cushion, taking one of her cold hands in her warm one.

‘Which is why she sent me to Lady Ellington’s?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want you to see her suffer.’

‘No. I think all my pestering her to deal with the creditors bothered her more than the consumption. The peace must have been a relief when she sent me away.’ Cecelia could only imagine how welcome the silence of death must have been.

Theresa squeezed her hand. ‘Please don’t give up. I don’t know what I’d do if you lost hope.’

Cecelia wrapped her arms around her cousin, trying to soothe away all her fears and concerns the way she wished her mother had done for her, the way her father used to do.

‘No, I won’t, I promise.’ She couldn’t give up. She had to persevere just as Daniel had taught her to do when his final illness had begun and she’d had to run Belle View, to pick up and carry on the way her father used to after every blow to his business. ‘You’re right, all isn’t lost yet. We’ll find a way.’

We have no choice.

* * *

Randall sat back, his cards face down under his palm on the table. Across from him, Lord Westbrook hunched over his cards, his signet ring turning on his shaking hand. A footman placed a glass of wine on the table in front of the young man and he picked it up, the liquid sloshing in the glass as he raised it to his lips.

Randall reached across the table and grasped the man’s arm. ‘No. You will do this sober.’

Lord Westbrook swallowed hard, eyeing the wine before lowering it to the table. Randall sat back, flicking the edges of the cards, ignoring the murmuring crowd circling them and betting on the outcome. In the centre of the table sat a hastily scribbled note resting on a pile of coins. Lord Westbrook’s hands shook as he fingered his cards and Randall almost took pity on him. If this game were not the focus of the entire room, he might have spared the youth this beating. Now, he had no choice but to let the game play to its obvious conclusion.

‘Show your cards,’ Randall demanded.

Lord Westbrook looked up, panic draining the colour from his face. With trembling fingers he laid out the cards one by one, leaving them in an uneven row. It was a good hand, but not good enough.

Randall turned over his cards, spreading them out in an even row, and a loud cheer went up from the crowd.

Lord Westbrook put his elbows on the table and grasped the side of his head, pulling at his blond hair. Randall stood and, ignoring the coins, picked up the piece of paper. Lord Westbrook’s face snapped up, his eyes meeting Randall’s, and for a brief second Randall saw his own face, the one which used to stare back at him from every mirror during his first year in London.

‘I’ve always wanted a house in Surrey,’ Randall tossed off with a disdain he didn’t feel, then slid the note in his pocket. ‘Come to my house next week to discuss the terms.’

Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking off the many hands reaching out to congratulate him.

Chapter Three

Cecelia shifted the white Greek-style robe on her shoulders, the wood pedestal beneath her biting into the back of her thighs, the sharp odour of oil paints nearly smothering her as she struggled to maintain her pose. Pushing the wreath of flowers off her forehead for the third time in as many minutes, she sighed, wondering how she’d ended up in Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio in this ridiculous position.

‘Lord Strathmore was right. You make the perfect Persephone,’ Madame de Badeau complimented from beside the dais, as if answering Cecelia’s silent question.

Cecelia shifted the bouquet in her hands, feeling more like a trollop than a goddess. Lord Strathmore wanted a painting of Persephone to complement one he already possessed of Demeter. Madame de Badeau had convinced Cecelia to pose, all the while hinting at Lord Strathmore’s interest in her. If it weren’t for the need to maintain his interest, Cecelia never would have agreed to this ridiculous request.

Her spirit drooped like the flowers in her hand, the weariness of having to entertain a man’s affection out of necessity instead of love weighing on her. Thankfully, business prevented Lord Strathmore from accompanying them today and deepening her humiliation.

‘Have you heard the latest gossip concerning Lord Falconbridge?’ Madame de Badeau asked, as if to remind Cecelia of how her last affair of the heart had ended.

‘No, I have not.’ Nor did she want to. She’d experienced enough cruel gossip in Virginia to make her sick whenever she heard people delighting in it here.

‘Lord Falconbridge won Lord Westbrook’s entire fortune. Absolutely ruined the gentleman. Isn’t it grand?’ She clapped her hands together like a child excited over a box of sweets.

‘What?’ Cecelia turned to face Madame de Badeau and the wreath tumbled from her head.

‘Mrs Thompson, your pose.’ Sir Thomas hurried from behind his easel to scoop up the wilting wreath and hand it to her.

She repositioned it on her head, her hand shaking with the same anger she’d known the morning Paul had turned them out of Belle View. ‘How could Lord Falconbridge do such a thing?’

‘My dear, he prides himself on it.’ The smile curling Madame de Badeau’s lips made Cecelia’s stomach churn. ‘The losses aren’t the worst of Lord Westbrook’s problems. Now that he’s penniless, the family of his intended has forbidden the match.’

Cecelia’s fingers tightened so hard on the bouquet, one flower snapped and bent over on its broken stem. She more than anyone knew the hardships Lord Westbrook now faced. ‘Surely Lord Falconbridge must know.’

‘Of course he does. All society knows. I think it most fortunate. Now Lord Westbrook will have to marry for money instead of love. I abhor love matches. They are so gauche.’

As Madame de Badeau launched into a description of the now-infamous card game, Cecelia fought the desire to rise and dismiss her. If she didn’t need Madame de Badeau’s connections in society, she’d have nothing to do with the shallow woman. Despite being an old friend of her mother’s, Cecelia sensed the Frenchwoman would gladly push her into poverty if only to provide a few witty stories for the guests at her next card party.

Cecelia thought again of Lady Ellington and all the unfinished letters she’d drafted to her since returning to London. The sweet woman had been such a comfort ten years ago, listening while Cecelia poured out her heartbreak over losing her father, her mother’s illness and, in the end, Randall’s rejection. The Dowager Countess was the only other connection she still possessed in England, though it was a tenuous one. They hadn’t exchanged letters in over eight years.

Cecelia shifted again on the dais, pulling the robe tight against the cold grief which had ended the correspondence. During her first two years at Belle View, she’d sent the Countess so many letters filled with the details of her life, from surveying her own fields to dining with the Governor. She’d written each with the hope the lady might share them with Randall and show him how far the ‘poor merchant’s daughter’ had come.

Then, after the loss of her little boy and the near loss of Daniel to the fever, all her girlish desires to impress someone half a world away had vanished.

Stinging tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to cry in front of Madame de Badeau and risk the woman’s mocking laughter. Like her heartache, the sense of isolation from anyone of decency sat hard on Cecelia’s chest. She pressed her thumb into one of the thorns on the stem, forcing down the encroaching despair. She would not fail, nor give up on Theresa the way her mother had given up on her. The Season was still young. They would make new friends and meet the man who’d save them before the truth of their situation became impossible to conceal.

‘Madame de Badeau, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you a patron of the arts,’ a familiar voice called out from behind her.

Cecelia’s back stiffened with a strange mixture of excitement and anger and the sudden movement made the garland tumble to the floor.

‘Hello, Mrs Thompson.’ Randall came to stand in front of the dais, towering over her, his tan pants covering his long legs while one hand grasped the silver head of his ebony walking stick. His other hand rested on his hip, pushing back his dark coat to show the grey waistcoat hugging the trim waist underneath. With an amused look he took in her draping-goddess dress and the basket of fruit at her bare feet.

‘Lord Falconbridge,’ she greeted through clenched teeth, annoyed at having to face the man whom, at the moment, she very much detested.

He bent down to pick up the garland, his hot breath caressing the tops of her toes and making her skin pebble with goose bumps. ‘I’ve never thought of you as a muse.’

She pulled her feet back under the robe. ‘You haven’t thought of me at all.’

‘Oh, I have, many times.’ His beguiling eyes pinned hers and she shivered. ‘But more as an adventurous Amazon in the wilds of America.’

He held out the wreath, the simple gesture more an invitation to forget herself than a desire to aid the painter.

She snatched it from his hands and pushed it down on her head. ‘How flattering.’

Randall straightened and for a brief moment appeared puzzled, as though surprised by the edge in her words. He quickly recovered himself, tossing her a scoundrel’s wink before strolling off to stand behind the easel.

‘I heard the most delicious news about you,’ Madame de Badeau congratulated, her wicked cheer grating. ‘You must tell me all about the game with Lord Westbrook.’

‘The subject bores me and I’m sure you already know the most interesting parts.’ Randall watched Sir Thomas work, irritation sharpening the lines of his face.

Cecelia wondered at his reaction. She expected him to boast about his win over Lord Westbrook, or revel in Madame de Badeau’s praise, not dismiss it as if he weren’t proud of what he’d done.

‘Then you’re the only one.’ Madame de Badeau sniffed. She wandered to the tall windows and peeked through a crack in one of the shutters covering the bottom and shielding Cecelia from the people passing outside. ‘Ah, there is Lady Thornton. I must have a word with her. Lord Falconbridge, please keep Mrs Thompson entertained until I return.’

His hot eyes pinned Cecelia’s. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘I don’t need company.’ Cecelia fixed her attention on a small crack in the plaster on the far wall, trying to avoid Randall’s suggestive look.

‘Tilt your head a little to the left, Mrs Thompson,’ Sir Thomas instructed and she obliged. Randall continued to study the portrait and Cecelia, but said nothing. Only the sound of the painter’s pencil sketching across the canvas, combined with the muffled clack of passing coaches outside, filled the room.

‘I have not seen the likeness yet,’ Cecelia remarked, the quiet making her restless. ‘Tell me, Lord Falconbridge, is it favourable?’

‘Hmm.’ He stepped back to examine the portrait and the subject. ‘It’s an excellent likeness. My compliments to the artist. However, the original is still more stunning.’

Cecelia arched one disbelieving eyebrow at him. ‘Thank you, my lord, but be warned, I won’t succumb to such obvious flattery.’

‘It’s the truth.’ His soft protest was like a caress and her heart ached to believe him, to know again what it was like to be valued by a man, not sought after like some prized cow.

She adjusted one hairpin at the back of her head, unwilling to believe that a man who’d bedded a number of society women possessed any real interest in her. ‘Tell me, Sir Thomas, how many times have you heard such compliments made in your presence?’

‘Many times,’ the painter chuckled. ‘But Lord Falconbridge’s are the most sincere.’

‘There you have it,’ Randall boasted. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Or you’re simply better at it than most.’

They fell silent and the sketching continued until Randall said something to the painter in a low voice. She strained to hear, but the laughter of two men on the street muffled the words. Then, Sir Thomas rose from his stool.

‘If his lordship and the lady will excuse me, I need another pencil. I shall return in a moment.’

‘Don’t hurry on our account,’ Randall called after him.

‘You asked him to leave, didn’t you?’ Cecelia accused, wary of being left alone with him.

‘You really think I’d stoop so low?’ He came closer to the dais, moving with the grace of a water snake through a lake in Virginia.

She struggled to remain seated, eager to place the distance of the room between them as he rested one elbow on the half-Corinthian column beside her. ‘Based on the gossip I hear attached to your name, it seems you’re fond of ruining people.’

He dropped his chin on his palm, bringing his arrogant smirk so close, all she needed to do was lean in to feel his mouth against hers. ‘You think a moment alone with me will ruin you?’

She glanced at his lips, wondering if they were as firm as she remembered. ‘It’s possible.’

‘I shouldn’t worry.’ His breath brushed her exposed shoulders and slid down the space between her breasts. ‘Sir Thomas is a very discreet man.’

Neither of them moved to close the distance, but she felt him waiting, expecting her to weaken under the strength of his charm and throw herself at him like Lady Weatherly and heaven knew how many others. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his expectation.

‘You, however, enjoy boasting of your conquests.’ She leaned away and Randall jerked up straight.

‘You’re truly mad at me?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Why should you be?’

‘Because you ruined Lord Westbrook.’

‘Lord Westbrook?’ He had the audacity to look surprised before a scowl replaced the suggestive smile of only a moment before. ‘What interest do you have in him?’

‘None, but I can sympathise with his plight, something you’re obviously incapable of doing.’

‘How can a rich widow sympathise?’

Cecelia looked down, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders. Her situation was already precarious. She needn’t arouse suspicion by showing so much emotion. ‘Whether I can sympathise or not doesn’t matter. What you did to him is still wrong.’

‘Is it?’ Randall paced the studio, swinging his walking stick in time with his steps. ‘Lord Westbrook is a man with responsibilities and capable of deciding whether or not to risk his future at the gaming table. You should be happy it was I who played him. Others wouldn’t have been so kind.’

‘You believe ruining him is kind?’

He halted, jabbing his stick into the floor. ‘I haven’t ridden to his estate and turned him out as I assure you is quite common. Nor have I forced him to the moneylenders and outrageous terms.’

‘Yes, he’s very fortunate indeed. It’s a wonder people don’t speak more favourably of you when you’re obviously such a generous gentleman.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched and shame flashed through his eyes before he looked away. For a moment she felt sorry for him. She’d seen this expression once before, ten years ago, when they’d stood together under the large ash tree at Falconbridge Manor, the shadows shifting over his father’s plain headstone. Like then, the look didn’t last, but fled from his eyes as fast as he’d fled back up the lawn, hard arrogance stiffening his jaw.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the studio.

‘Sir Thomas is returning,’ Randall announced, moving to examine a large landscape near the window, his back to her as Sir Thomas’s footsteps grew louder. He stood still except for his fingers. They toyed with the walking-stick handle, betraying a certain agitation, as if her words had struck a chord. Did he feel some guilt over what he’d done to Lord Westbrook? No, surely it was only the shock of being dressed down by a lady, something she was sure he rarely experienced.

‘Are you ready to continue?’ Sir Thomas asked, taking his place behind the easel.

‘Yes, please.’ Cecelia resumed her pose just as the curtain flew open and Madame de Badeau swept into the room.

‘You won’t believe what Lady Thornton just told me. Lord Falconbridge, you’ll think it sinfully good when you hear it.’

‘I’m sure, but for the moment, you’ll have to entertain Mrs Thompson with the story. I have business to attend to.’ He snapped his walking stick up under his arm and made for the door.

‘What a bore you are,’ Madame de Badeau chided, then turned to Cecelia. ‘My dear, wait until you hear what’s happened to Lord Byron.’

* * *

Randall barely heard two words of Madame de Badeau’s gossip as he stormed from the room, catching Cecelia’s reflection in the mirror near the door, disapproval hard in her eyes before she looked away.

He passed through the dark shop and out into the sunlit street beyond, tapping his walking stick in time with his steps.

He hadn’t expected to meet her in the studio today, especially not in a silky robe wrapped tight around her narrow waist, exposing the curve of her hips and breasts and making him forget all business with the painter. Once together, he hadn’t been able to resist tempting her with a few words, or trying to draw out the alluring woman who’d met his daring innuendoes at Lady Weatherly’s. Who knew his efforts would be rewarded with a reprimand?

Randall sidestepped two men arguing on the pavement, a crate of foul-smelling vegetables smashed on the ground between them.

Who was she to chastise him? What did she know of London habits? Nothing. She’d spent the past ten years among provincials, cavorting with heathens and who-knew-what society. Now she seemed to think it her duty to shame him the way his father used to.

He slammed his walking stick against the ground, the vibration shooting up his arm.

Why didn’t she stay in America?

Instead she’d returned to London, dredging up old memories like some mudlark digging for scraps along the Thames, determined to berate him like some nursemaid. She was mistaken if she thought she could scold him with a look, or if her chiding words meant anything to him. He wasn’t about to change because of her or anyone else’s disapproval.

He swatted a tomato with his walking stick, sending it rolling into the gutter, trying to ignore the other, more dangerous feeling dogging his anger. He’d caught it at the salon the other night and again today when he’d complimented her and for a brief moment she’d almost believed him. It was the faint echo of the affection they’d once enjoyed. Whatever she thought of his behaviour, somewhere deep beneath it, she felt the old connection, too.

He turned a corner into a square of fine houses, trying to concentrate on the bright sun bouncing off the stone buildings and the steady clop of horses in the street, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on Cecelia.

His anger changed to interest as he walked, twirling his stick. He’d ached to trace the line of her shoulders with his fingers, push back the tumble of brown hair sweeping her neck and draw her red lips to his. Even angry she was beautiful and he wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman before.

His pace slowed and he trailed his walking stick along the wrought-iron fences surrounding the houses, the quick clicks echoing off the buildings.

What weakness kept bringing him back to Cecelia? He’d enjoyed and left a number of women over the years without regret. Why couldn’t he forget her?

Because at one time, he’d loved her.

He stopped, his walking stick pausing against the metal before he snapped it up under his arm.

Love, he snorted, resuming his walk. This had nothing to do with love or any other ridiculous sentiment, but the excitement of a challenge. There wasn’t a woman he’d known who hadn’t thrown herself at him once he made his interest clear. Until today. He’d nearly forgotten the excitement of the pursuit and the pleasure of the capture.

Despite Cecelia’s caustic words, he’d caught the flashes of desire his suggestions brought to her eyes and how her parted lips practically begged for his kiss. He recognised her reprimand for what it was—an obstacle to overcome. After all, most women found it necessary to put up some charade of resistance, even after showing up at his house in the middle of the night wearing little more than a pelisse.

He turned a corner, stepping out on to busy Great Russell Street, the energy of the people rushing past him feeding the anticipation building with his determination. She might sneer at his reputation today, but once she surrendered to him, and she would, they’d enjoy enough pleasure to ensure she forgot all about his previous escapades.

He tapped his fingers against his thigh, eager to feel her soft skin against his and taste the lips which had been so tantalisingly close to his in the studio.

It would be so different between them this time. With her wealth, she wouldn’t demand more of him the way she had before, and when the passion faded, as it always did, they could part without regret, all the old sins forgiven and forgotten.

For the first time in a long time, he looked forward to the chase.

Chapter Four

Cecelia and Theresa sat astride two geldings from Lord Strathmore’s stable, slowing their horses to match the leisurely pace of Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore’s mounts as they entered Rotten Row. It was the first ride for either of them during the crowded fashionable hour. Cecelia sat up straight in the saddle, savouring the gentle gait of the horse beneath her and the fine spring evening. It was well worth the pain of enduring Lord Strathmore’s endless chatter about his carriage to be on horseback again.

‘I painted it red and ordered gold crests to match the gilding along the top,’ he explained to Madame de Badeau, who offered a perfunctory nod, her attention on the riders surrounding them. ‘I’m also rebuilding the carriage house in stone. I much prefer the smooth texture. It’s quite alluring, especially when rendered into the curves of the female form.’

His hungry eyes fixed on Cecelia, sliding down the length of her. She offered him a wan smile, then leaned back in the saddle so Madame de Badeau and Theresa blocked her from his view. Theresa rolled her eyes at Cecelia, who shot her cousin a reprimanding look betrayed by the smile sneaking in beneath it.

‘Look at Lord Penston’s mount,’ Madame de Badeau interjected, inclining her head at a round man with white hair riding past them. ‘What a shame. Someone of his standing should invest in a better bit of blood.’

Lord Strathmore responded with an ‘hmm’ before returning to the topic of his carriage, his words keeping pace with the horses as they continued down the Row.

Cecelia smiled at two passing gentlemen, grinding her teeth as their stony faces stared past her. One would think all London were afraid to crack a smile for fear of sending the city sliding into the Thames. Adjusting the reins, she wanted to tap the horse into a sprint and ride like she used to at Belle View. Let the spectacle of a horse truly exercising bring some emotion to the other riders’ staid faces. Instead, she rested her hands on her thighs, rocking with the horse and settling into her thoughts, the mounting pile of bills at home preying on her.

She’d spent the better part of the morning calculating the value of her few possessions against their mounting debts, her depression growing by the minute. The one small ray of hope was the inheritance payment she’d soon receive. It was the only money left to her by her father, his share of a sugar plantation in Barbados, the single investment to have ever made him any money. The payments were never large because there were so many other investors, but even the paltry amount would be enough to ease some of her present worry.

She ran her hand over her wrist, feeling the small bump of the gold bracelet beneath the velvet, not wanting to think about the last time she’d so desperately needed the money. Her mother hadn’t been able to rouse herself for even two hours to see to this small matter and Cecelia had ventured alone to Mr Watkins’s office to collect the payment. Cecelia had railed at her mother afterwards, no longer capable of holding back all her fears and frustration, wishing her mother would wrap her arms around her and tell her everything would be all right. She hadn’t.

Not long afterwards, she had told Cecelia to pack for Lady Ellington’s.

Cecelia’s shoulders sagged, the pain and loneliness of then mirroring her life now. She wanted to slide off the gelding and crawl beneath a bush, curl up in a ball where no one and nothing could bother her. Then she forced back her shoulders and raised her head high, smiling at a passing gentleman. Was his name Mr Hammerworth or Mr Passingstoke? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter, nor did she let it trouble her when he trotted past without so much as a glance. She would not give up, she would not leave Theresa alone to face an uncertain future the way her mother had left her.

‘Look—’ Theresa’s voice pierced Cecelia’s thoughts ‘—there’s Lord Falconbridge.’

Cecelia’s body tensed as she watched Randall ride towards them, his eyes fixed on her, his smile wide and inviting. She struggled not to frown, frustrated to know she could elicit smiles from no one in Rotten Row except him.

‘Good evening, Lord Falconbridge,’ Madame de Badeau sang, more cheerful than she’d been the entire length of the ride.

‘Falconbridge,’ Lord Strathmore mumbled.

‘Isn’t it lovely out, Lord Falconbridge?’ Theresa greeted in a bright voice, arching a suggestive eyebrow at Cecelia with an obviousness as chafing as Randall’s presence.

‘Yes, it is, Miss Fields.’ Randall turned his horse, bringing it alongside Cecelia’s. ‘No greeting from you, Mrs Thompson?’

‘Hello, Lord Falconbridge.’ She tried to focus on the path instead of him, but she couldn’t. Atop the brown stallion, he looked like a fine sculpture, his confidence as solid as any bronze casting. He wore a dark riding coat tailored close to fit the strong angles and broad expanses of his torso. The cut of the coat was nothing compared to the close fit of his breeches. His stallion danced and Randall’s thigh muscles tightened as they gripped and eased to control his mount. She followed the line of them up to a more enticing muscle before a rumbling laugh made her eyes snap to his.

‘I see you’re enjoying all the sights of the Row,’ he teased.

She swatted a fly from her skirt, annoyed at having been caught staring at him.

‘I’m enjoying the ride, not the sights, Lord Falconbridge.’

‘Randall, please, like in old times.’ He placed one hand over his heart, the gesture genuine and matched by the sincerity in his eyes. She caught in their depths the young man who’d once sat beside her on the banks of the River Stour, listening while she cried out her anger at being sent away and her worries over the future. It touched the cold, lonely place inside of her, the one growing like a tumor since Daniel’s death.

‘I’m surprised to see you out riding,’ she commented, eager to thwart the encroaching pensiveness. His comfort had been fleeting and hardly worth remembering. ‘Why aren’t you home resting for another long night of ruining people?’

The teasing remark came out sharper than intended and she steeled herself, expecting a cutting response. Instead he laughed, the barb rolling off him like water off a fine saddle. ‘Contrary to what you believe, I don’t spend every evening ruining young gallants who possess more money than wits.’

‘How do you spend your evenings, then?’ She was truly curious.

He shrugged. ‘Much the same as you do.’

‘I doubt it.’ Since I don’t bed half the widows in society. Lady Ilsington rode by on her chestnut gelding, eyeing Randall with a hungry look, then frowning when he failed to acknowledge her. ‘With the exception of balls, it isn’t my habit to keep late hours.’

He leaned towards her, his thighs tightening beneath the buckskin, their hardness carrying up through the solid centre of him to his blue eyes shaded by his hat. ‘Then we must cure you of such a strange malady.’

Her hands tightened a little too hard on the reins and the horse began to veer towards Randall.

‘An interesting proposition, but I think your cure might be worse than the disease,’ she rushed, correcting the horse.

‘You would die a thousand little deaths.’

His low voice twined around her and her knee bent harder around the pommel, her pulse fluttering against the tight collar of her habit as she slowed the horse to drop behind the others, ignoring Theresa’s questioning look.

Randall slowed his stallion to keep pace, loosening his grip on the reins as the horses ambled along.

‘Shall we dismount here and wander off into the bushes?’ she suggested. ‘Or would you prefer a more clandestine meeting— your town house, perhaps—late at night? I could wear a veil and arrive by hackney, most sinful and nefarious indeed.’

His finger trilled slowly over his thigh. ‘You make it sound so sordid when it could be so beautiful.’

She ran her tongue over her lips, noting with triumph how it drew his eyes to her mouth, her power over him driving her boldness. ‘Am I really an illustrious enough candidate to bestow your favours on?’

‘Who could be more illustrious than an old friend?’

Friend. She brought the gelding to a stop, the word snapping her out of the seductive haze. They’d been more than friends once, or so she’d believed until the end. He was mistaken if he thought he could charm her into forgetting. It was time to bring his teasing to an end. ‘As an old friend you will understand when I politely decline.’

He turned his horse, walking it back to her as the others rode on. ‘And you will understand when I ask again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.’

‘No, Randall, I won’t.’ The gelding shifted and she tugged the reins to steady it, the animal’s agitation adding to her own. ‘Why do you continue to pester me when I’ve made my position clear?’

‘Because you captivate me, more than you realise.’

The revelation nearly knocked her from the saddle and she shifted her foot in the stirrup to keep her seat. Did he really care for her or was this all part of his game, his ego’s desire to capture the adoration of every woman in London, even an insignificant widow? Her horse shook its head and she turned it in a circle, eager like the animal to vent the energy building inside her.

She positioned her riding crop over the horse’s flank, mischief creeping in beneath her resentment. If he wanted the thrill of the chase, she’d give him one, along with a beating solid enough to end his interest in her. ‘Do you still race, my lord? I remember you were the best in the county.’

‘I was eighteen.’

‘Then I expect you’ve improved with age. To the statue and do not disappoint.’

She snapped the crop against the horse and it shot off down Rotten Row. Behind her, the stallion’s hooves drummed a steady beat on the packed dirt path and in a moment Randall was beside her. They raced side by side, the horses nearly in sync as they flew past geldings shying off the path or rearing up in surprise, their wide-eyed riders hanging on tightly. She turned the horse to the right to avoid a curricle, the driver’s curses lost in the pounding of the gelding’s hooves. Randall dodged around a group of riders and fell back until the path cleared and his stallion picked up speed. The statue came into view and his horse pulled ahead. She dug her heel into the side of the gelding and the horse leapt forward, passing the statue a nose length before Randall’s.

‘Now there’s the woman I remember,’ Randall congratulated, his thick voice echoing through her, infectious and alluring as they slowed their horses to a walk.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve ridden like that.’ Her heart raced in her ears and Cecelia lifted her face to catch the stiff breeze sweeping over her damp skin.

‘Shall we canter to the lake?’ He circled her with his horse, tempting her with the energy radiating between them. ‘Put that horse of yours through its paces?’

‘I think it’s you who’ll be put through his paces. You pulled back, just like you always used to do.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You did, I saw it, and I’ll see it again at the lake.’ She raised the reins, ready to snap the horse back into action, when three old matrons crossing their path in the curricle stopped her. The tallest one glared at her from beneath a dark parasol while the other two whispered behind their hands. Only then did Cecelia notice the other riders watching them, their faces pinched and disapproving. What little she’d accomplished with all her smiles, she’d just undone in a moment of rashness.

She swallowed hard, the riders’ scrutiny too much like the morning she’d entered Bruton Parish Church to meet the cold stares of every family who believed General LaFette’s lies. It would happen again here in London if she wasn’t careful. Only this time, there was nowhere else for her and Theresa to go.

‘What’s wrong?’ Randall asked.

She wrapped the reins around one hand, eager to be away from him, the Row and everyone who’d seen them. ‘Once again I’ve forgotten myself in your presence.’

Randall scowled, bringing his horse close to hers. ‘Don’t worry what they think.’

She pulled her horse’s head to one side, forcing him away from Randall’s mount. ‘Unlike you, I must.’

‘What happened to the brave girl I remember?’

‘As you said, I was a girl. A lady must mind her behaviour.’

‘No, you have the means to be free. Don’t let these people make you afraid.’

‘Don’t seek to counsel me, Lord Falconbridge,’ she snapped. ‘You know nothing of me or my life.’

She kicked her horse into a trot back up the path, her habit itchy under the rising heat of her embarrassment and anger. How dare Randall sit on his horse with all the privileges of his sex, title and wealth and instruct her on how to behave? How dare he try to tempt her into an indiscretion, then chide her for wanting to protect her reputation? He’d abandoned his so long ago, it was clear he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to keep theirs.

The animal tried to gallop, but she kept him at a trot, despite wanting to let it run, to carry her away from all the heartless people and her own troubles. Ahead, Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore came into view, their faces hard. Madame de Badeau walked her horse out to meet Cecelia.

‘A splendid display of horsemanship.’ It was a warning, not a compliment. ‘I don’t know how ladies ride in Virginia, but here they don’t race through Rotten Row.’

‘I’m sorry. I quite forgot myself.’

‘I don’t recommend forgetting yourself again.’ She inclined her head at Lord Strathmore, his snub nose wrinkled in disapproval. ‘Not all gentlemen appreciate such spirited public displays.’

Anger burned up Cecelia’s spine and she wanted to turn and gallop back to Randall, dismiss them both and embrace the freedom he offered. Only the sight of Theresa beside the Earl kept her from snapping the horse into a run. It wasn’t freedom Randall offered, but an illusion as fleeting as those her father used to create before every failed trip to Calais, and as likely to sink her as her father’s ship had sunk him and his business.

‘Come along, then.’ Madame de Badeau escorted Cecelia back to Lord Strathmore, riding beside her like a guard.

Cecelia felt like a prisoner to her debt and to every bad choice made by her father, her mother and even Daniel. They’d all escaped the ramifications of their decisions, leaving her, always her, to deal with the consequences.

Resignation extinguished her anger and she let the horse, Lord Strathmore’s horse, continue forward. It wasn’t just her future at risk, but Theresa’s. If she lost the Earl’s good opinion, and the opinion of who knew how many others, Theresa would suffer, too, and she refused to allow it. Fingering her gold bracelet, she tried to look contrite while thinking of all the simpering words she might say to soothe the hard set of Lord Strathmore’s lips. Each turn of phrase burned her tongue like hot water, but she would say them. Life was what it was and she must make the best of it. Nothing good could come from wishing for it to be any different.

Chapter Five

Randall stood on the staircase, watching the elite men of London snigger and cough as they examined the selection of paintings arranged on easels across his wide marble hall. A fine collection of art base enough to make a bawd blush was on display. It was the last of Uncle Edmund’s collection, which used to hang in the entrance hall of Falconbridge Manor, his uncle’s defence against respectable ladies attempting to cross the threshold and land a Marquess.

‘Impressive works, Falconbridge,’ Strathmore mumbled as he walked past, looking a little red around the collar, as if this much flesh so early in the day was more than even a man of his tastes could tolerate.

The footmen carrying trays of Madeira were also having trouble maintaining a steady course in the face of so much painted flesh. For the second time in five minutes, Randall watched as the wiry-haired Duke of St Avery nearly collided with a gaped-mouth footman.

‘You’ll gain quite the reputation as a collector after this,’ Lord Bolton offered with a touch of reverence as he stopped to examine a nearby portrait.

‘I don’t think that’s the reputation I’ll gain.’ Randall smirked with more arrogance than he felt. The exhibition might titillate society, but today, the excitement of shocking their sensibilities left him flat. Instead all he could think about was Cecelia and their encounter yesterday in Rotten Row. His agitation was exacerbated by the ridiculously early hour he’d arisen. Not even Reverend had deigned to join him to watch the sun rise and tease out why Cecelia, after flying like a mad woman down the row, all lively laughter and glowing skin, had shrunk back into herself like some scared turtle at the sight of a few old matrons.

It wasn’t the Cecelia he remembered, the one who used to laugh boldly at these paintings in front of Uncle Edmund instead of averting her eyes.

What had dulled her bravery and made her more afraid of a few old crows than she’d ever been of Uncle Edmund? Perhaps the husband was to blame.

Randall tightened his hands into fists behind his back, imagining the colonial’s face twisted in disapproval. Cecelia might have stood up to such scrutiny at first, but over time it would have chipped at her, like his father’s constant reprimands ate at him.

Randall cracked the knuckle of one finger.

The colonial was a fool if he’d failed to cherish Cecelia’s spirit or revel in her sweet laughter the way Randall had yesterday.

The art dealer, a short man with a wide forehead, approached, tugging at the knot of his cravat, his discomfort no doubt eased by the tidy profit waiting for him at the end of the sale. ‘I know I objected to your lordship displaying such a...’ he paused, searching for the proper word ‘...unique collection in an open exhibition, but you were right. The interest this showing has generated is stunning. I don’t expect one painting to remain unsold.’

‘Good. I want them gone by the end of the day.’ For years, they’d kept Aunt Ella ensconced in the dower house until a fire the spring before Cecelia had come to visit made it unlivable. The morning after Uncle Edmund’s funeral, she’d demanded the paintings be taken down and Randall had agreed. He possessed no more desire than she did to live in a manor house decorated like a bordello.

Strathmore, standing before a painting of two naked women wrestling for the amusement of several soldiers, waved the dealer over.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Lord Falconbridge, I believe we’ve made another sale.’ The dealer hurried off to join the Earl.

Randall watched as Strathmore pointed a thick finger at first one and then another of the most sordid of the lot. All at once, he imagined Strathmore sitting close to Cecelia, his dry lips hovering near her ear as he relayed with delight the dirty details of every picture, relishing the chance to poison her against him.

Randall took a step down, ready to grab the Earl by the collar and toss him out of the house, but he stopped, regaining his imperious stance and wiping away all traces of annoyance from his expression. Strathmore was beneath his notice and his anger.

A footman pulled open the front door and Lord Weatherly, Lord Hartley and Lord Malvern entered, their loud voices dropping at the sight before them.

‘Heavens,’ Lord Weatherly mumbled as he stepped up to the nearest painting, an explicit depiction of an ancient Roman man and woman watched by their curious servants. It used to hang in Uncle Edmund’s study, a strange complement to the paintings of birds and hunting dogs.

Behind him stood Lord Hartley, Marquess of Hartley, a stately man of forty-five and a fixture of society whom Randall liked and respected. He could not say the same about his dolt of a nephew, Lord Malvern. The young Baron in the tight blue silk coat possessed more words than brains and little knew how to wield either.

The fop gaped at the paintings before catching Randall’s eye. He made for Randall, his poor uncle following behind like a tired governess chasing after a wayward charge. If it weren’t for Lord Hartley, Randall would have cut his nephew. Instead, he remained standing on the steps, looking down at the rail-thin Malvern.

‘Lord Falconbridge, with so much interesting art for sale, may we assume you have a new conquest, one who is making you part with your precious collection?’ His weak lips drew up into a grin Randall assumed was meant to be haughty, but it only made him look as if he’d smelled curdled milk.

Behind him Lord Hartley rolled his eyes.

Randall twisted the signet ring on his small finger, looking over the stupid man’s head. ‘You may assume whatever you like.’

‘Don’t disappoint, Lord Falconbridge.’ He lifted one foot to step up and Randall pinned him with a look to melt ice.

Malvern lowered his foot back to the floor. ‘Tell us who she is. All society wants to know.’

‘If by all society, you mean the betting book at White’s, don’t think I’ll give you the advantage. We aren’t on familiar enough terms for such confidences.’

Lord Malvern’s lips twitched as if trying to form a retort when his uncle dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Spare the Marquess any more of your wit, Morton. Go see the paintings and enjoy the only visit you’ll likely make to the Marquess’s house.’

Lord Malvern sneered at his uncle, but shuffled off to join a group of similarly dressed young men crowding around a painting of nymphs and satyrs engaged in an orgy.

‘If he wasn’t my wife’s nephew, I’d have nothing to do with him.’ Lord Hartley shook his head, leaning one elbow on the wood balustrade. ‘He thinks his mouth will make him a reputation, but it won’t be the one he wants. I don’t suppose you’d consider calling him out, aim wide and send him scurrying back to the country?’

‘As tempting as it is to draw first blood on him, he’s hardly worth the effort or the bullet.’ Randall stepped down to join the Marquess. ‘Besides, with his lack of wit, you won’t be saddled with him for long.’

‘Ah, how I look forward to the day he leaves.’ Lord Hartley laughed before he sobered at the sight of his nephew making a rude gesture to one of the other fops. ‘I’d better see to it he doesn’t embarrass himself further. Good day, Lord Falconbridge.’

Lord Hartley walked off to rejoin his nephew near the Roman painting.

The fops crowded around it, laughing into their hands like a gaggle of school girls before one of them reached out to run a gloved finger over the Roman woman’s arm.

Her arm is too long, Cecelia’s voice rang through his mind, the memory of her laughing at the painting bringing a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.

The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.

I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.

Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.

Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.

He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.

He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.

* * *

‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’

‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’

It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.

‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.

‘I look forward to speaking with you then.’ She nodded for Theresa to rise, the strain on her cousin’s face striking Cecelia harder than Mr Watkins’s news. It ripped at her to see Theresa so worried instead of carefree and happy like she used to be before Daniel’s death. It reminded her too much of herself at sixteen.

‘I don’t normally recommend this measure, but I sense you may be in need of such services.’ Mr Watkins’s words stopped them and they settled back on the edges of their chairs. He removed a slip of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write. ‘This is the name of a gentleman who may be able to help you.’

He handed the paper across the desk. Cecelia took it and looked at the name and address.

Philip Rathbone, 25 Fleet Street.

‘A gentleman? You mean a moneylender.’

Mr Watkins nodded. ‘I would not recommend him except among his class he is exceptional.’

‘You mean he doesn’t ruin people as quickly as the others.’

Mr Watkins steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘He’ll deal fairly with you, more so than any other man in the Fleet.’

‘I’ll take it into consideration.’ She slipped the paper into her reticule. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Watkins.’

The solicitor escorted them through the front room past two clerks copying documents. ‘I’ll notify you if anything changes.’

She caught a slight sympathy in the older man’s words and, though she appreciated it, hated being in a position to need it. ‘Of course, you’ll be discreet concerning this matter.’

‘I’m always discreet.’

‘Thank you. Good day.’

Cecelia slipped her arm in Theresa’s and guided her down the pavement.

‘What are we going to do?’ Theresa whispered, looking nervously over the passing people as if expecting someone to stop, point and announce their secret.

She didn’t blame her for being nervous. There were many times when she had wondered if everyone already knew and if that’s why they kept their distance.

Cecelia clutched the top of the reticule and the paper inside crinkled. Having Mr Rathbone’s name in the bag made it, along with all the other burdens she carried, seem heavier. She stood up straight, trying not to let this new setback weigh her down, to be brave for Theresa’s sake and ease some of her cousin’s fears. ‘I may have to visit the moneylender.’

‘But you can’t.’ Theresa’s voice rose high with panic before she clamped her mouth closed, leaning in close to Cecelia. ‘We haven’t the means to repay a man like him.’

‘I know, but it’s better to owe one discreet man than to have the butcher and grocer declaring our debts through town. I can make arrangements with Mr Rathbone, then only use the money if things turn dire.’ Though at the moment, they were teetering precariously close to dire.

London was proving far more expensive than she’d anticipated. They reworked old dresses, made do with only Mary, shivered through the night to avoid burning coal and relied on refreshments at soirées and dances to help keep them fed, yet still it wasn’t enough. She’d sold the silver yesterday, the small amount it brought already spent to secure their town house for the next three months. Hopefully, it would be enough time for either her or Theresa to find a husband. If not, she wasn’t sure how they would survive. Except for their simple jewellery, fine clothes and the books, there was little left to sell.

‘Miss Domville told me all sorts of horrible stories about people being threatened by creditors,’ Theresa protested, stepping closer to Cecelia when the pavement narrowed and the crowd thickened. ‘It isn’t safe to deal with them.’

‘What does Miss Domville know except gossip?’ Cecelia scoffed, wondering if Madame de Badeau’s sister was the best influence for Theresa. ‘I’ve dealt with creditors before. I know how they conduct business.’

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