‘If you agree to come here and play the piano for me I can create another story.’

He smiled with all the charisma he employed to woo patrons in London, hoping she wouldn’t dismiss the idea outright.

She laced her arms beneath her breasts and stepped back, the cynical schoolmarm returning. ‘And what instrument do you hope I’ll play afterwards? I’m not Madame de Badeau, a woman to be hired as a mistress.’

He didn’t blame her for being cautious. Once he’d achieved fame, the number of people he could trust had shrunk significantly.

‘I don’t want a mistress but a muse.’

It was difficult to look at her and not think of twining his hands in her golden hair, tasting her pink lips as they parted beneath his and freeing those glorious breasts from their prim confines. He’d better not concentrate on them if he wanted to win her co-operation and keep himself free from distraction and bankruptcy.

‘I need you.’

Author Note

Miss Marianne’s Disgrace is about overcoming the past to build a better future. Marianne, who made her first appearance in Rescued from Ruin, is a talented piano player, and I wanted to explore how music allows her to cope with a difficult life. To help me craft her scenes I dipped into my childhood piano lessons experience. I never mastered the instrument, but all the hours I spent at my parents’ antique Bösendorfer finally came in handy.

My inspiration for Sir Warren came from reading about Sir Walter Scott, the famous novelist, and from medical history.

Scott teetered on the verge of losing everything he’d earned when he became entangled in a publishing scheme and sank into crippling debt. He was determined to pay it off through his writing, and achieved his goal mere months before he died. Unlike Scott, Sir Warren’s near bankruptcy is the result of another’s scheming, but his desire to pay back investors on his own is similar to Sir Walter Scott’s. I modelled Priorton on Scott’s beloved Abbotsford.

Sir Warren’s background as a Navy surgeon was inspired by my research for a historic battlefield medicine class that I teach. Life as a Navy surgeon in the time before anaesthesia was bloody and nerve-racking, and it seemed like a good way to torture an artistic soul.

Through their burgeoning love Marianne and Warren help each other overcome their pasts and build a future together. I hope you enjoy Miss Marianne’s Disgrace.

Miss Marianne’s Disgrace
Georgie Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A lifelong history buff, GEORGIE LEE hasn’t given up hope that she will one day inherit a title and a manor house. Until then she fulfils her dreams of lords, ladies and a Season in London through her stories. When not writing, she can be found reading non-fiction history or watching any film with a costume and an accent. Please visit georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books.

To all the writers who struggle through challenges

to achieve their goals.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

England, September 1820

The crack of shattering porcelain cut through the quiet. Miss Marianne Domville whirled around to see Lady Ellington, Dowager Countess of Merrell, on the floor amid shards of a large chinoiserie bowl. Moments ago the bowl had been resting on the edge of a table while Lady Ellington had walked about the room, admiring the Italian landscapes adorning the panelling.

‘Lady Ellington!’ Marianne rushed to her companion. ‘Are you all right?’

Mrs Stevens, their new friend, knelt on the Dowager’s other side. Together, they helped Lady Ellington to sit up. Next to her lay a large sliver of the broken bowl, the razor-sharp edge rimmed with red from where it had sliced Lady Ellington’s upper arm.

‘I—I don’t know,’ Lady Ellington stammered. She clasped the wound as blood seeped through her fingers and ran down over the elbow to stain the top of her satin gloves. ‘I tripped on something and somehow knocked the bowl to the floor when I fell.’

‘Let me see.’ Marianne tried to look at the injury, but Lady Ellington twisted away.

‘You needn’t fuss so much,’ she chided in a shaky voice. ‘It’s just a scratch, nothing more.’

‘Then allow us to examine it.’ Mrs Stevens reached over and gently peeled Lady Ellington’s fingers away from the wound. Her lips tightened as she studied the wide and bleeding cut.

‘This needs immediate attention.’ She pressed her handkerchief over it.

Lady Ellington winced and a fine perspiration spread out beneath the line of her light-blonde hair streaked with grey.

‘Will she be all right?’ Marianne asked as the embroidery on the linen blurred with red. One of her schoolmates at the Protestant School in France had cut herself this deeply. It had become inflamed and she’d gone from a lively child to resting in the churchyard in the space of two weeks. For all Marianne’s misfortunes, none would equal losing Lady Ellington.

‘Of course,’ Mrs Stevens reassured in a motherly tone. ‘But the wound must be closed. Fetch my son. He used to be a naval surgeon. He’ll see to it.’

‘But he wasn’t at dinner.’

‘He came in after we withdrew and is probably with the men. Go quickly. I’ll stay with Lady Ellington.’

Marianne rose on shaky legs and walked in a fog of worry out of the study. She turned down one hall, then paused. The heavy sauce from the fish course twisted in her stomach. This wasn’t the way. As she doubled back, the sweep of her footsteps on the carpet dulled the panicked thud of her pulse in her ears. She hadn’t paid much attention when she’d followed the ladies to the study after leaving the sitting room. She’d been too busy fuming over Miss Cartwright’s snide comments to concentrate on what turns they’d made to reach the distant room.

‘Where’s a footman when you need one?’ They’d been as thick as fleas along the wall at dinner and in the sitting room afterwards. Now there wasn’t even a lowly maid scraping out ashes in any of the empty rooms flanking the hall. Lady Ellington might bleed to death before Marianne found her way back to the other guests.

No, she’ll be fine. All I need to do is find Mr Stevens.

She turned a corner and the door to the wide front sitting room came into view. She exhaled with relief and rushed towards it, careful not to run. She didn’t want to fly into a fit of worry, not with Lady Ellington relying on her to keep a level head. Hopefully, the men hadn’t lingered in the dining room.

No such luck.

The women looked up from around the card table as Marianne stepped into the doorway. Their faces were no warmer or more welcoming then when she’d left them fifteen minutes ago.

‘Can we help you, Miss Domville?’ Lady Cartwright drawled, as if it hurt her to be polite.

‘Lady Ellington has injured herself and is in need of help. I must find Mr Stevens.’

‘Sir Warren,’ Miss Cartwright corrected, her lips pulling back over one crooked front tooth as she laid a card on the pile in the centre, ‘is in the dining room with the men.’

‘I’ll call a footman to summon him. After all, it can’t be too serious,’ Lady Cartwright sneered under her breath to Lady Astley and Lady Preston who sat with her at the card table.

‘No, thank you, I’ll fetch him myself.’ Marianne made for the dining room, not about to lose time waiting for these hard women to decide whether it was more important to put Marianne in her place or to help Lady Ellington.

She didn’t remember the hallway being so long when Lady Ellington had walked beside her, chatting gaily with Mrs Stevens about the new Italian landscape paintings they were about to view. Marianne quickened her pace, stumbling a little over a wrinkle in a rug before righting herself.

The deep laugh of men muffled by the double oak doors punctuated the growing whispers of the ladies congregating in the sitting-room doorway behind Marianne. They gasped in shock, practically sucking the air from the hallway as Marianne pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

They weren’t the only ones who were stunned. The footman jumped in front of her so fast, he almost lost his wig.

‘Miss, you shouldn’t be here.’ He shifted back and forth to block her view, as if she’d walked in on the men dancing naked in front of the buffet.

‘Move aside, I must see Sir Warren.’ She slipped around the ridiculous footman and headed for the table.

The men were too lost in a weedy fog of tobacco and fine port to notice her. All the candles but those at the far end of the long table of Lady Cartwright’s ridiculously long dining room had been extinguished, deepening the smoky shadows outside the circle of light.

‘I tell you, Warren, it’s an investment you can’t miss.’ Mr Hirst thumped the table in front of him. His words were thicker and more slurred than when he’d rattled on to her at dinner about his intention to import a new type of tobacco from North Carolina. He’d pleaded with her to speak to Lord Falconbridge about investing in his venture, addressing her breasts more than her during the discussion. The noxious little man. His lust was all she’d come to expect from most gentlemen. Carnal pleasure was the only thing the men who’d streamed through Madame de Badeau’s entrance hall had ever wanted from her and they’d despised her for not giving it to them.

The men on either side of Mr Hirst nodded in agreement, except for Lord Cartwright who slumped forward on the high polished table, snoring beside an empty wine glass.

‘You could make a fortune,’ Mr Hirst insisted.

‘Rupert, I’ve already made a fortune with my novels,’ the man who must be Sir Warren replied. He sat with his back to Marianne, a glass of port held at a languid angle to his body.

‘Sir Warren,’ Marianne called out, interrupting his leisure.

Chairs scraped and men coughed and sputtered as they hurried to stand. Even Lord Cartwright was hauled to his feet by Lord Astley. Lord Cartwright’s bleary eyes fixed on her.

‘What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?’ he sputtered, wavering and nearly falling back into his seat before Lord Astley steadied him.

‘I need Sir Warren. It’s urgent.’

‘I’m Sir Warren.’ The man with his back to her set his drink on the table and turned.

She braced herself, ready to receive from him another chastising look like the others had flung at her, but it wasn’t there. Instead, his deep-green eyes were wide with the same surprise filling her and it dissolved all of Marianne’s sense of urgency. He was tall, with a broad chest she could lay her head on, if she was inclined to embrace people, which she wasn’t. His long, sturdy arms ended in wide hands with slender fingers tinged a slight black at the tips. He was taller than the other gentlemen with long legs and narrow hips. The softness of the country hadn’t set in about his flat stomach beneath his waistcoat or along the line of his jaw shadowed by the first hint of light stubble. He wore his blond hair a touch longer than the other men with a few strands falling forward over his forehead. There seemed something more professional man than gentleman in his bearing. Although his clothes were fine, they weren’t as tidy or well pressed as the other gentlemen’s and his cravat was tied, but the knot was loose.

Unlike his companions, he didn’t appraise her large breasts, which she did her best to hide beneath the chemisette and high bodice. Instead he waited patiently for her to explain herself, like Mr Nichols, the old vicar at the Protestant School in France used to do whenever he’d caught her being naughty. Where had this man been at dinner? With him by her side instead of old Lord Preston, she might have actually enjoyed the overcooked lamb.

The rest of the men weren’t so kind, brushing her with their silent disapproval and more lurid thoughts.

‘How can I be of assistance?’ Sir Warren prodded, snapping her out of her surprise.

‘You must come at once. Lady Ellington has cut herself badly and needs your help.’ She reached out, ready to pull him along to the study before she dropped her hand. To touch a man, even innocently, was to encourage him and she needed his assistance, not his ardour.

His smile faded like the last flame licking at a coal in a fireplace. He slid a glance to Mr Hirst. It was a wary, troubled look like the ones Mr and Mrs Smith used to exchange during Marianne’s first month at their house when they’d been forced to tell her Madame de Badeau still hadn’t written.

Hollow disappointment crept into her already knotted stomach. Sir Warren wasn’t going to help her. Like every other reputable gentleman, he’d swiftly but politely decline any involvement with her before rushing across the room to avoid the taint of her and her reputation.

How petty.

She opened her mouth to shout him down for not having the decency to rouse himself from propriety long enough to help an ailing woman, but he spoke first.

‘I’ll see to her at once.’ Sir Warren motioned to the door. ‘Please, lead the way.’

She clamped her mouth shut, near dizzy with relief as she hurried back across the dining room, keenly aware of his steady steps behind her.

‘You there, lead us to the study.’ She snapped her fingers at the footman, afraid she wouldn’t remember the way and waste more time heading down pointless hallways.

The footman jumped at the command, walking briskly in front of them as Marianne and Sir Warren followed him out of the dining room.

‘What happened?’ Sir Warren asked in a voice as rich as the low A note held down on the pianoforte.

Marianne twisted her hands in front of her, noting the hard faces of the women watching them from the sitting-room doorway. ‘She cut herself on a broken porcelain bowl.’

Sir Warren jerked to a halt in the hallway as if he were about to change his mind.

‘Your mother said you could help,’ Marianne encouraged, afraid to lose him now and in front of the sneering women.

‘Yes, of course.’ He lost his hesitation and they resumed their steady pace.

They approached the ladies clustered behind Lady Cartwright and her imperious scowl. Their whispers ceased as Marianne and Sir Warren passed, and Marianne could practically hear the scandal wicking through the countryside. She could stop and explain, but there was no point in wasting the breath or time. Some might understand and forgive her. The rest wouldn’t be so charitable even if she were summoning help for the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘It’s just the type of inappropriate behaviour I’d expect from someone related to Madame de Badeau,’ Lady Cartwright’s barely concealed voice carried down the hall behind them.

‘She should be ashamed of herself,’ Lady Astley whispered.

Marianne winced, expecting their censure to make Sir Warren change his mind about assisting her. To her astonishment, he turned and strode back to their hostess.

‘Lady Cartwright, would you be so kind as to fetch a sewing kit, a roll of linen, a few towels and vinegar and see them delivered to the study. Lady Ellington has been seriously injured and I need the items.’

Lady Cartwright’s long face dropped as the crow finally grasped the urgency of the situation. ‘Of course, I’ll have the housekeeper see to it at once.’

She grabbed the skirt of her dress and fluttered off in the opposite direction, leaving her daughter and the rest of the ladies to huddle and whisper.

Sir Warren returned to Marianne. ‘Shall we?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Marianne started off again, amazed at his command of Lady Cartwright and the alacrity with which he’d defended her. She wished she possessed the power to wipe the nasty sneers from the women’s faces. After four years, most of the country families still believed she was as bad as the late Madame de Badeau. They couldn’t see past all of the dead woman’s scandals to realise Marianne, despite having the woman’s blood in her veins, wasn’t a brazen tart like her.

‘Does Lady Ellington have a strong constitution?’ Sir Warren asked as they turned the corner.

‘The strongest.’

‘You’re sure? It’ll matter a great deal to her recovery if the wound is deep.’

‘I’m quite sure. I reside with her. She’s my friend.’ And almost the only person who’d accepted her once the scandal with Madame de Badeau had spread. Her support, and the influence of her nephew and his wife, the Marquess and Marchioness of Falconbridge, stood between Marianne and complete isolation from society.

As they continued on to the study, Sir Warren’s presence played on her like a fine piano sonata. She’d never been so conscious of a man before, at least not one who wasn’t ogling her from across a room. He didn’t glance at her once as they crossed the hallway and he hadn’t been inappropriate in his regard, not even when she’d first faced him in the dining room. She wondered at the strange awareness of him and if it meant the penchant for ruin did linger inside her, waiting for the right man to bring it out. After all, Madame de Badeau had been in control of herself for many years, until the thought of losing Lord Falconbridge had pushed her to near madness. If it did exist in Marianne, she’d stand strong against it, as she had all Madame de Badeau’s wickedness, and make sure it never ruled her.

At last, the study door came into sight and she forgot Sir Warren as she focused on her friend.

‘Stay here in case we need you,’ Sir Warren instructed the footman and the man took up his place along the wall.

Marianne hurried forward, eager to know if Lady Ellington was any better or worse, but Sir Warren’s hand on her upper arm brought her to a halt. He gripped her lightly, drawing her back to him. She whirled to face him, fingers curling into a fist, ready to strike him like she used to the lecherous men at Madame de Badeau’s, but the melancholy shadow covering his expression made her hand relax.

‘Miss?’ he asked, the question as soft as his pulse flickering against her skin.

‘Domville.’ She braced herself, expecting recognition to ripple through his eyes and make him recoil from her.

It never came.

‘Miss Domville, I’ll do all I can for Lady Ellington, but you must understand how small an arsenal I possess against the chance of inflammation.’

Marianne began to tremble. ‘Are you saying this to scare me? Because I assure you, I’m already frightened.’

He slid his thumb along her skin, the gesture subtle but comforting, soothing her in a way she’d craved so many times during her childhood at the Protestant School and in the face of Madame de Badeau’s callousness. Deep in the back of her mind, the raspy voice of experience urged her to pull away. She’d learned years ago not to seek solace in others or to accept so familiar a touch from a man. Both were the quickest paths to disappointment. For the first time, for no logical reason she could discern, she ignored the voice and experience.

‘I’m saying this because I have no desire to deceive you about the strength of my skills, or those of any man of my former profession,’ he explained. ‘We’re helpless against everything but the most minor of ailments. Even those outdo us from time to time. It’s a truth many medical men are loath to admit.’

There seemed more to his admission than a need to discredit himself. Something about his past in medicine drove him to speak when most physicians would be pushing expensive and useless treatments on her. She caught it in the tight lines around his mouth. Was it a failure or a lost patient? Whatever it was, the silent plea wasn’t just for understanding, but for forgiveness. She covered his hand, her chest catching as he tightened his fingers around hers. Despite the inappropriateness of this exchange, she knew too much about pain to leave someone else to suffer.

‘Sir Warren, Lady Ellington means more to me and has done more for me than anyone else and has never expected anything in return except my friendship. I understand the shortcomings of your profession and appreciate your honesty and willingness to help. Whatever happens, I won’t blame you. I only ask you to do your best.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘I will.’

* * *

Warren’s palm went cold the instant he let go of Miss Domville. A trickle of perspiration slid down the arch of his back. He swiped at it, leaving his shirt sticking to his skin beneath his coat. If he didn’t detest the feeling so much, he’d call it fear.

The candles in the candelabrum near the door wavered with the draught as he entered the study. Lady Ellington sat grimacing on the floor, pillows propped behind her. Faint streaks of drying blood ran the length of her arm beneath the soiled handkerchief. Darker drops littered the floor and stained her mauve skirt and the carpet.

Warren paused on the threshold, the brackish taste of mouldy cask water burning his tongue. He took a deep breath, coughing slightly as the scent of burning wood and gunpowder filled his nostrils.

His mother looked up, apology as heavy as concern for the patient in her expression. ‘Warren, thank goodness you’re here.’

Warren pushed forward, forcing his feet to move one in front of the other. He carefully brushed aside the broken porcelain pieces so he could kneel next to the regal lady and better view the laceration. He removed the blood-soaked handkerchief and steadied himself as he examined the gaping wound.

‘How are you tonight, Lady Ellington?’ He tried to sound cordial but the words came out tight.

‘I’ve certainly been better.’ She offered him a weak smile, her wide chest covered in diamonds struggling to reflect the low light.

‘Miss Domville, please bring the candles closer.’

Miss Domville’s dress fluttered behind her as she took the candelabrum from near the door and set it on the table above Lady Ellington. The memory of his assistant surgeon holding a candle over Warren’s head while Warren dug splinters out of a seaman’s neck flashed in the facets of Lady Ellington’s diamonds. Some of the sailors had survived thanks to his skill. Many more hadn’t, no matter how much he’d done for them.

Miss Domville knelt beside Warren. The whisper of silk and her fresh peony scent pushed back the old stench of seared flesh. He offered her an encouraging smile, wishing he could wallow in her faint answering one. He couldn’t and focused on the patient.

‘I’m sorry, Lady Ellington, but the cut is deep and will require sutures.’

Lady Ellington’s pale face went almost transparent. ‘It will hurt, won’t it?’

‘It will, but without them I can’t stop the bleeding.’

‘Don’t worry, Lady Ellington, you’ve faced worse,’ Miss Domville encouraged. The worry he’d caught in her voice in the hallway when he’d cautioned her about believing too much in medical men was masked by her reassuring words.

‘You’re quite right, my dear. We must soldier on tonight as we always do, mustn’t we?’ Lady Ellington reached out with her good arm and patted Miss Domville’s knee. The young lady didn’t stiffen beneath the older woman’s touch as she had with Warren’s, nor did the tenderness of her smile fade.

‘Sir Warren, I brought the items you requested.’ Lady Cartwright’s voice ended the sweet comfort of the ladies’ exchange.

At the door, Lady Cartwright covered her mouth in shock. Warren wasn’t certain if it was for Lady Ellington or the now-stained carpet. He suspected the latter as he took the sewing box and bottle of vinegar from the stalwart housekeeper and set them next to him.

‘Come away from there at once, Miss Domville.’ Lady Cartwright flapped her hand at her guest. ‘Next to a surgeon is no place for a young lady. You’ll only get in Sir Warren’s way.’

‘No, I need her help and her friend needs her comfort,’ Warren countered as he took up the needle and began to thread it with sturdy white silk. His hands were solid on the slender metal, but he felt the tremor rising up through his body. He was determined to finish the task before it swept over him and made him appear weak and incompetent. He took a deep breath, inhaling Miss Domville’s sweet scent. It calmed him more than any drought of laudanum or dram of rum ever had.

When the needle was ready, he handed it to Miss Domville. ‘Hold this, please.’

Their fingers met and she pulled away as if he’d pricked her, the tension he’d sensed when he’d touched in her in the hallway returning. He wished he could soothe whatever worries made her flinch, but it was the patient who needed him now.

He took up the bottle of vinegar, splashed some on to the clean cloth and pressed it to the wound. Lady Ellington winced.

‘You might have warned me.’ She scowled, a touch of humour behind the reprimand.

‘It would have hurt more if I had,’ Warren countered with a half-smile. He set the cloth and vinegar aside and took the needle from Miss Domville. He pinched the top of it, careful not to touch her this time. ‘Put your hands on either side of the skin and push it closed.’

Without question or hesitation, Miss Domville did as she was told. A trickle of blood seeped over her long fingers, but she didn’t flinch or blanch. He admired the girl’s pluck. Most genteel young ladies would be swooning on the sofa by now.

Not to be outdone by a young woman, Warren drew in a bracing breath and set to work.

Lady Ellington whimpered with each pierce of the needle and draw of the thread, but she didn’t scream or jerk away. Warren worked fast, eager to cause her as little pain as necessary.

Over his shoulders, an occasional whisper broke through his concentration. To Lady Cartwright’s credit, she kept the other ladies from crowding into the room and interfering. To her detriment, she didn’t staunch the steady stream of derision aimed at Miss Domville.

‘She’ll ruin her dress,’ Lady Preston sneered.

‘She’s acting like a common camp follower,’ Miss Cartwright hissed.

Warren made the final suture, tied it off with a neat knot and used the scissors in the sewing kit to snip the needle free of the thread. ‘You’d make quite a surgeon’s assistant, Miss Domville. You have the steady nerves for it.’

She frowned and glanced past him to the door. ‘Not everyone agrees with you.’

‘Ignore them.’ He handed her a clean towel, eager to see her lovely white fingers free of the red taint.

‘I spend my days ignoring them.’ She roughly scrubbed her skin.

He wondered what had happened to turn the others against her. Perhaps it was jealousy. She was sensuous like a Greek sculpture with shapely arms ending in elegant hands. When her fingers were clean and white again, she handed him the stained towel, avoiding his touch. Then she adjusted the lace chemisette covering her very generous décolletage. The brush of her fingertips across her breasts proved as teasing as it was modest. It made him forget the dirty linen in his palm as he watched her straighten a pin in her golden hair with its faint hints of amber circling her face. It was arranged in small twists which were drawn together at the back of her head, emphasising her curving neck and the small curls gracing it. While he watched her, he was no longer irritated at being drawn back to the sickroom he despised. If he’d known this beautiful woman was waiting in the sitting room for the men to finish their port, he’d have insisted they leave the dining room at once.

‘Warren, perhaps you should see to the bandage,’ his mother encouraged, interrupting his admiration of Miss Domville.

‘Of course.’ Warren took up the roll of linen and wound it over the wound, attempting to ignore the blood covering his fingers and to focus on Miss Domville’s steady presence beside him. As he tied the bandage, a small spot of red darkened the centre, but it spread out only to the size of a thruppence before stopping. ‘There now, Lady Ellington, all is well again.’

Lady Ellington looked at her arm and the dried streaks running down it. ‘To imagine, all this trouble because I tripped.’

‘It was no trouble at all. I’m glad you summoned me.’ He patted her good shoulder, hoping his smile hid the lie. It didn’t and his mother caught it, offering him a silent apology, but he ignored it. The old fear humbled him enough without anyone noticing it. ‘Let’s help her up to the sofa so she can rest.’

The moment Lady Ellington was settled against the cushions, the invisible dam holding the ladies back burst. They flooded into room, surrounding the Dowager Countess in a flurry of chirping and silk. Warren moved back, surprised to find Miss Domville next to him.

‘She really will be all right, won’t she?’ she asked, her fear palpable. She wasn’t the first person to seek his reassurance about a patient.

‘There was no cloth pushed into the wound to fester and, given her robust health, I think she’ll recover well.’ It was the best he could offer.

Pink replaced the pale worry on the apples of her cheeks. He’d experienced the same reprieve the day he’d returned to Portsmouth and resigned his commission. He’d vowed that day never to climb aboard another Navy frigate again, and heaven help him, he wouldn’t.

‘I’ll write out instructions for properly seeing to the wound while it heals and a recipe for a laudanum tonic to help ease any pain.’ He walked to the escritoire, the activity relieving some of the tension of having attended to a patient for the first time since his sister’s death over a year ago. He pulled out the chair, making it scrape against the wood floor, irked that a simple cut could affect him or dredge up so many awful memories. His reaction was as shocking as when he’d turned to find Miss Domville in the dining room asking him to help the same way his mother had asked him to intervene during Leticia’s travails.

Seating himself, he selected a piece of paper from the stack on the blotter. He paused as he laid the clean sheet over the leather. Blood darkened the tips of his finger and the side of his hand. He rubbed at the stains with the linen towel, but the red clung to his skin as it used to during a battle. He tightened his hand into a fist, desperate for water and soap to rid himself of the filth.

He looked up, ready to bolt from the room in search of cleansing when his eyes caught Miss Domville’s. She glanced at his clenched hands, then back to his face. It wasn’t his mother’s pity in the stunning blue depths of her eyes, but the same bracing strength she’d offered Lady Ellington before he’d begun his work.

He snatched up the pen, his fingertips pressing hard on the wood as he scratched out in shaky letters the directions for mixing the laudanum and alcohol. He pushed back the haunting memories of his cramped cabin below the waterline and focused on the proportions, determined not to get the dosage wrong and leave poor Miss Domville at fault for easing her friend’s pain for good.

‘My, it’s cold in here,’ Lady Astley’s voice rang out above the noise.

A poker clanged in the grate and Warren flinched, running a streak of ink across the paper. The scrape of rods shoved down cannon barrels echoed in the sound, the balls buried deep inside and ready to wreak a destruction his surgical skills could never hope to undo.

‘Ladies, I think Lady Ellington should be left alone to rest until the carriage is called.’ Miss Domville’s firm suggestion sounded above the clatter, silencing it.

Warren, pulled from the past by the steady voice, was surprised by the young lady’s ability to remain composed in the face of so many hostile stares. She reminded him of a seasoned seaman calmly watching the coming battle while the new recruits wet themselves.

Lady Cartwright huffed up to Miss Domville, not content with a silent rebuke. ‘I don’t think you should instruct us on how to behave. You didn’t even have the decency to tell us what was wrong, bursting in on the men and leaving us to think who knows what.’

‘It was an emergency. There wasn’t time for pleasantries.’ The twitch of small muscles around the young woman’s lips undermined her stoicism.

Lady Cartwright opened her mouth to unleash another blow.

‘She was right to summon me as she did.’ Warren rose to defend Miss Domville, tired of the imperious woman. Miss Domville had endured enough tonight worrying over her friend. She didn’t need some puffed-up matron rattling the sabre of propriety over her blonde head. ‘And she’s correct. Lady Ellington needs space and rest. Lady Cartwright, would you call for her carriage? Mother, would you escort her and Miss Domville home? I’ll send my carriage for you.’

‘Of course.’ His mother arched one interested eyebrow at Lady Ellington, who offered a similar look in return before her face scrunched up with a fresh wave of pain.

Lady Cartwright’s nostrils flared with indignation, not nearly as amused as the two ladies on the sofa. ‘I’ll summon Lady Ellington’s carriage. After all, we wouldn’t want to detain Lady Ellington or Miss Domville any longer.’

She struck Miss Domville with a nasty look before striding off in a huff.

The long breath Miss Domville exhaled after Lady Cartwright left whispered of tired resignation. It was as if she’d waged too many similar battles, but had to keep fighting. He understood her weariness. Aboard ship, he’d faced approaching enemy vessels with the same reluctant acceptance.

Her gaze caught his and he dropped his to the paper as if he’d stumbled upon her at her bath, not in the middle of these chattering biddies. Unable to stand the noise any longer, Warren snatched up the instructions and quit the room. In the quiet of the hallway, he spat into his palm and rubbed the handkerchief hard against his skin. It smeared the red across his hand, dirtying the linen as it had stained the rags aboard ship. There’d never been enough buckets of seawater to clean the grime from beneath his fingernails.

He screwed his eyes shut.

This is nothing like then. Nothing like it. Those days are gone.

The war against Napoleon was over, his commission resigned. He was no longer Lieutenant Stevens, surgeon aboard HMS Bastion. He was Sir Warren Stevens, master of Priorton Abbey and a fêted novelist.

A fêted novelist who’d be destitute and a disappointment to his family like his father had been if he didn’t finish writing his next book.

He opened his eyes and scrubbed harder until at last the red began to fade, cursing the troubles piling on him tonight.

‘Sir Warren, are you all right?’

Miss Domville approached him, the flowing silk of her dress brushing against each slender leg. Beneath her high breasts, it draped her flat stomach and followed the curve of her hips. She stopped in front of him, her eyes as clear and patient as when they’d faced each other before.

Humiliation flooded through him. He wouldn’t be brought low by memories. He clutched his lapels and jerked back his shoulders, fixing her with the same glib smile he flashed adoring readers whenever he signed their books. ‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I don’t know. You seem troubled.’ She studied him the way his sister, Leticia, used to, head tilted to one side, her chestnut curls brushing her smooth cheeks. It had looked so dark, matted against her forehead with sweat, her hazel eyes clouding as the life had faded from them. Hopelessness hit him like a jab to the gut.

‘I’m fine.’ He handed her the now-wrinkled and sweat-dampened paper, ashamed by this bout of weakness. It had been a long time since the memories of his time at sea had overwhelmed him like this. He’d thought he’d overcome them in the ten years since he’d left the Navy. Apparently, he hadn’t. ‘Follow the directions precisely, otherwise you may do more harm than good.’

‘I will, and thank you again for your help.’ Miss Domville folded the paper, pausing to straighten out a crease in one corner as she glanced past him to the fluttering women. ‘All of it.’

‘It was the least I could do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He turned and left, ignoring the confused crease of her smooth forehead as he all but sprinted away from her and the study. He regretted the abrupt departure, but he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of her already. Despite the draw of Miss Domville’s presence, the faint desire to linger in her sweet smile and vivid blue eyes, he needed the solitude of home and his writing to calm the demons stirred up by tonight.

Chapter Two

‘You entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?’ Lady Ellington’s cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?’

Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington’s tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.’

‘But, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.’

Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I’m already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.’

‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.’ Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn’t how young ladies behave.’

‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.’ With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her chaise. ‘I’m sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.’

‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies’ tongues wagging from here.’ Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington’s dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.

Marianne frowned. ‘Why can’t she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?’

‘Patience, Marianne,’ Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.’

‘If only they were small.’ She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he’d bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.

‘Your problems aren’t so very large they can’t be overcome,’ Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.

Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington’s dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington’s solid reputation couldn’t keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.’

‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.’

Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.

‘Now there’s a smile.’ Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.

Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her chin.

‘You’re so pretty when you smile. You should do it more often.’

Marianne tossed the linen down beside the china. ‘If I had more to smile about, I would.’

‘Nonsense. You’re too young to hold such a dim view of life.’ She raised one ring-clad hand to stop Marianne from protesting. ‘Yes, I know you’ve seen a greater share of trouble than most young ladies. But it does you no good to be morose. You’ll only end up like poor Rosemary.’

‘Now, that’s unfair.’

‘True, but we can’t have you languishing here and becoming a spinster, not with your enviable figure and your money. We’ll go to London next Season and find you someone.’

‘No. I won’t go back there.’ She could manage the scrutiny of a few country families, but not the derision of all society. Besides, whatever hopes Lady Ellington harboured about Marianne’s wealth and looks landing her a good husband, she didn’t share them. Marianne brushed at the lace over her breasts, wishing she didn’t possess so much figure, but it was what it was. As for the money, leaving her well settled had been the one and only thing the vile Madame de Badeau had ever done for her. Marianne shuddered to think how the woman must have earned it. ‘The only gentleman attracted to me is the broke Lord Bolton. Hardly a suitable pool of suitors.’

‘Then we’ll increase it. After all you can’t spend your entire life composing pianoforte pieces.’

What else is there for me to do?

The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they’d landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.

She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn’t want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.

‘Speaking of things to do.’ Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we’ll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.’

Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?’

‘I’m not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I’ll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.’

With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn’t go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn’t say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else’s outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.

Then again, who was she? The only relation of London’s most notorious lady scoundrel.

She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she’d received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she’d spent at the school. The only thing she’d done was arrive on Marianne’s tenth birthday and take her from the only family she’d ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she’d thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she’d dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne’s stubbornness had kept her from the altar.

A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne’s lips. Madame de Badeau’s face had practically turned purple when Marianne had tossed Lord Bolton’s roses back at him when he’d knelt to propose. It had been worth the beating to defy the nasty woman.

Marianne’s smile faded and with it her determined spirit. In the end, Madame de Badeau had got her revenge and ruined Marianne’s life.

She grasped the cold metal handles on either side of the box. It didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do except bear it as she had all the other disappointments and insults the woman had heaped on her. She started to heave the box from the table when the door swung open, stopping her.

‘Lady Ellington, how are you?’ Cecelia, Marchioness of Falconbridge, moved as fast as a lady so heavy with her second child could to hug Lady Ellington. Her husband, the Marquess of Falconbridge, followed behind. Lord Falconbridge was tall with a square jaw and straight nose, his blue eyes made more stunning by his dark hair. ‘I was so worried when I heard about your accident.’

‘You needn’t fuss over a little scratch, not in your condition,’ Lady Ellington chided. ‘Randall, how could you let her scurry about the country when she should be at home resting?’

‘I couldn’t stop her.’ Lord Falconbridge dropped a kiss on his aunt’s cheek. ‘Besides the two miles from Falconbridge Manor to Welton Place is hardly scurrying about the country.’

‘It’s the furthest I’ve been from the house in ages.’ The Marchioness rubbed her round belly then shifted in the chair to turn her tender smile on Marianne. Her brown hair was rich in its arrangement of curls and her hazel eyes flecked with green glowed with her good mood. ‘Thank you so much for looking after Lady Ellington. It means so much to us to have you here with her.’

With Lord Falconbridge’s help, Lady Falconbridge struggled to her feet, then embraced Marianne. Marianne accepted the hug, her arms stiff at her sides. She should return the gesture like Theresa, her friend and Lady Falconbridge’s cousin, always did, but she remained frozen. The Marchioness had always been kind to her, even before she’d risen from an unknown colonial widow to become Lady Falconbridge. It was the motherly tenderness in the touch Marianne found more unsettling than comforting. She wasn’t used to it.

At last Lady Falconbridge released her and Marianne’s tight arms loosened at her sides. Unruffled by Marianne’s stiff greeting, the Marchioness stroked Marianne’s cheek, offering a sympathetic smile before returning to the chair beside Lady Ellington.

Despite her discomfort, Marianne appreciated the gesture. The Smiths had been kind, but she’d never really been one of their family, as she’d discovered when the scandal of Madame de Badeau had broken. Afterwards, despite the years Marianne had spent with them, they’d been too afraid of her tainting their own daughters to welcome her back.

Marianne swallowed hard. Of all the past rejections, theirs had hurt the most.

‘Oh, Cecelia, how you carry on.’ Lady Ellington batted a glittery, dismissive hand at the Marchioness. ‘You’d think I was some sort of invalid.’

‘We know you’re not, but we’re grateful to Miss Domville all the same.’ Lord Falconbridge nodded to Marianne as he stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders. Four years ago, Marianne had discovered Madame de Badeau’s letter detailing her revenge for Lord Falconbridge’s rejection of her by seeing Lady Falconbridge assaulted by Lord Strathmore. Marianne had given him the letter from Madame de Badeau outlining her plans and with it the chance he needed to save Lady Falconbridge. The revealing of Madame de Badeau’s plot had led to her ultimate disgrace and gained for Marianne the Falconbridge family’s appreciation and undying dedication.

Marianne shifted on her feet. Lord Falconbridge’s gratitude made her as uncomfortable as the hug. A notorious rake she’d once thought as hard as Madame de Badeau, love had changed Lord Falconbridge. What might it do for her? She wasn’t likely to find out. No man worth his salt was going to push past the rumours and gossip to ever get to know her.

‘Marianne, guess what? Theresa is expecting again. Some time in the spring,’ Lady Falconbridge announced.

‘How marvellous.’ Despite Theresa being one of Marianne’s only friends, the good news stung. It illustrated once again the love and happiness Marianne would never enjoy. ‘I’ll write to her at once with my congratulations.’

She fled the room before the envy and heartache found its way to the surface. She made for the sitting room downstairs near the back of the house, eager to reach the pianoforte and the smooth black-and-white keys. Once inside the room, the view of Lady Ellington’s prized rose garden through the far window didn’t calm her as it usually did. She withdrew a red-brocade composition book from the piano bench. The spine creaked when she opened it. She flipped through the pages and the notes bounced up and down on the staffs, punctuated every few lines by a smudge of ink or her fingerprint. It was her music. It had comforted her during the long, lonely hours at Madame de Badeau’s, and afterwards, before her life had settled into the even cadence of Lady Ellington’s dower house.

Selecting her most recent composition, she propped the book up on the music stand and lifted the cover over the keys. Wiggling her fingers, she rested them on the ivory until it warmed. Then she pressed down and began the first chords, wincing at each wrong note until she settled into the sweet and mournful piece. Through the adagio, she concentrated on the shift of the foot pedal and the strength with which she struck each key and how long she held it until sweeping on to the next. The black notes tripped along in her mind, memorised from hours of practice.

Finally, the piece reached its slow, wailing end and she raised her hands. The last notes vibrated along the wires until they faded away. Blinking through wet lashes, her cheeks and neck cold with moisture, she studied her hands. They were smooth and limber now, but some day they’d be wrinkled and stiff and here she’d be, with any luck, living under the protection of the Falconbridge family, the scandals as forgotten as she.

She wiped the tears from beneath her chin and turned the page to one of her slightly less sombre compositions. Crying wouldn’t do any good. If Lady Ellington didn’t think it was hopeless, then perhaps it wasn’t. If nothing else, there was always Lord Bolton.

* * *

‘There’s a fortune to be made here, Warren, can’t you see it?’ Rupert Hirst, Warren’s brother-in-law, paced back and forth across the rug in front of Warren’s desk. A little wrinkle rose up in the patterned carpet where his heel dug in to make the turn.

Warren frowned. If Rupert paced long enough, he’d wear a hole in the thing and then it would be another repair for Warren to pay for. The workers were behind enough already, despite the rush to finish before the good weather ended, and the costs were increasing by the day. If Warren didn’t write this book and get it to William Berkshire, his publisher, and collect the remainder of his advance, there’d still be holes in the roof come the first snow.

Lancelot, Warren’s red Irish setter who chased sleep more than he did birds, watched from where he lay on the hearthrug, not bothering to rise.

‘I can see the potential. I can also see myself losing a great deal of money if your optimism proves unfounded.’ Which wouldn’t be the first time. Despite his brother-in-law’s best efforts, Rupert hadn’t made a go of his last venture and it had faltered. Even his love for Leticia had proved destructive in the end.

Warren twirled his pen in his fingers. It wasn’t fair to blame Rupert. He’d loved Warren’s sister. If only Mother Nature had been so enamoured. The cruel witch had turned her back on Leticia and her poor little babe, failing to answer even Warren’s entreaties for help as he’d struggled to save them both.

‘I’m committing most of my small inheritance to hiring the best captains and ships to import the tobacco, and securing the crops of numerous farmers, so it can’t fail. I won’t let it,’ Rupert protested, frustration and desperation giving his voice an unappealing lilt. ‘I need your backing, not just financially, but your name. It will attract others and once they’ve invested or become buyers, the risk to you will be minimal.’

‘But not non-existent.’ Warren gathered up a small stack of books from the corner of the desk and carried them to the dark wood bookshelves lining the lower floor of the study. He examined the spines in the bright daylight filling the room from the row of leaded glass windows behind his desk. At least the sun saved him the expense of lighting candles. ‘The repairs to Priorton are proving expensive. I can’t afford to risk money on a business venture.’

Warren climbed the curving staircase to the balcony and opened a glass case and deposited a thick medieval text inside. If he could write the next damned book he might be able to take a chance. The manuscript was already months overdue. Mr Berkshire was a friend and a patient man, willing to wait for the next great sensation from Sir Warren Stevens, but he wouldn’t wait for ever. Neither would Warren’s readers. They’d move on to another emerging novelist if he didn’t produce something soon.

‘If my plan to import the new tobacco succeeds, you’ll have plenty of money,’ Rupert persisted.

‘And if it doesn’t, it will ruin my financial standing and my reputation.’ Warren looked over the polished wood banister at Rupert. His company was tolerable enough and his vices non-existent, but there was nothing special about him. He still couldn’t understand what Leticia had seen in him. ‘I have no wish to go from celebrated author to hated hawker of bad investments.’

‘But I need your support. I think it’s the least you can do, considering.’ The words came out low with the edge of a growl. Even Lancelot raised his head at the sound.

‘Careful, Rupert.’ Warren gripped the banister, setting hard on his arms as he leaned forward, staring the man down. ‘She was as much my sister as she was your wife.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything or to sound desperate, but some days I feel so lost without her.’ He hung his head, raking one hand through his thinning dark hair, the simple gold wedding band glowing on his finger. ‘If she were here, I’d have her support and it would make it easier to deal with the setbacks and disappointments.’

Warren eased his grip on the banister at the anguish in Rupert’s words. Warren had lost his greatest supporter, too, when Leticia had died. She’d edited and read all of his manuscripts, telling him where they were best and what could be improved, and she’d believed in them, and him, even when he hadn’t. Not even Mr Berkshire had matched her enthusiasm for his work and now she was gone.

He slid his hand over the banister, then took the spiral staircase step by slow step. He could almost hear Leticia begging him to help Rupert. She’d begged Warren to invest in Rupert’s first business after they were engaged so he could make enough to allow them to marry. Warren had been as wary of that venture as he was this one, but Leticia had stood in front of his desk, like Rupert did now, pleading with him to change his mind, to help Rupert and to make her happy.

He approached his brother-in-law, the differences in their height making Warren look down on the slender man. Whatever Rupert’s shortcomings, Warren had taken him on when he’d given his consent for the marriage. If Rupert did manage to make a go of things, Warren could make a great deal. He’d need it, especially if he failed to deliver this next book or it didn’t sell as well as the previous one. Without Leticia here to edit it, it might not. Since her death, his stories had all but deserted him.

‘All right, tell me how much you need and I’ll discuss it with my man of affairs. I can’t give you everything you’re asking for, but perhaps I can do something.’ The key was not to risk too much.

Rupert snatched up Warren’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you, Warren, you don’t know how much this means to me.’

He did. Mr Berkshire had taken a chance on Warren’s first manuscript ten years ago, paving the way to Priorton and Warren’s title. He hoped Rupert enjoyed the same success. If not, it would be the last time Warren helped him.

‘Warren?’ His mother appeared at the door, a letter in her hand. Lancelot roused himself and trotted to her, his jingling collar joining the faint echo of hammers and saws trickling down from the upper floors. ‘Lady Ellington and Miss Domville are coming to tea tomorrow. I’d like you to join us.’

Miss Domville.

Warren undid his loose cravat and twisted the ends back into an uncooperative knot. To say he was startled when he’d turned to find her in the dining room last night was putting it mildly. He couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d marched in claiming he’d fathered a child. Since then, to his ire, he’d thought more about her than the heroine of his latest manuscript. Her sharp cheeks highlighted by the fair hair pulled into tight ringlets at the back of her head, the blush of youth across the sweep of her skin and the azure eyes watching him with suspicion, had proved fascinating. She’d dressed modestly, with a higher bodice than even a vicar’s daughter, but the raw appeal of her curving body had been jarring—just like her request for his help.

Shame made his cravat tighter and he pulled loose the knot again. Not even the other gentlemen’s disapproving and less polite scrutiny had been enough to shake her determination, but his near refusal had. When he’d hesitated, it had sent a whisper of fear through her clear blue eyes before her determination had overcome it. She’d been like the most stalwart of captains, unwilling to let anything stop her from achieving her goal, not even a ridiculous sense of propriety. If only all people possessed the same judgement and resilience. The Admiralty certainly didn’t, heaping pay and praise on physicians who did nothing but hide from illness onshore while the underpaid surgeons choked below deck treating the wounded men.

Warren gave up on the cravat and allowed the loose linen to dangle around his neck. He shouldn’t have been so quick to leave Miss Domville last night. She’d caught his struggle with the past and despite her own concerns she’d reached out to him. Instead of thanking her for her sympathy, one people rarely offered him, he’d shoved her away. Despite his misstep, it was probably for the best given his inability to stop thinking about her. He didn’t have the time or money for anything as expensive as a wife and family, even if the woman possessed means. He wasn’t about to make his fortune by marrying it. He’d earn it as he always had, and as a man should, through his own industry.

‘Warren, you can’t be rude to Lady Ellington.’ His mother shook her head at him, her lace cap fluttering over her dark hair which was more grey than chestnut now. ‘Her nephew is a marquess who could do a great a deal for you and your career.’

‘I have the Prince for a patron. I hardly need a lowly peer,’ he teased with a grin she matched with a slightly more serious one as she patted Lancelot on the head. ‘I have too much work to do. I’ll rely on you to speak glowingly of me and cultivate her support.’

‘So you won’t come for Lady Ellington, I understand. But I thought for sure you’d want to see Miss Domville.’ His mother was far more tenacious than Rupert, who’d watched the conversation with interest, but her company much more pleasurable

‘Not if you want to maintain your good reputation,’ Rupert snorted now.

‘She’s a very charming young lady,’ Warren’s mother corrected, silencing Rupert’s chortles.

He didn’t respond and Warren didn’t press for the story behind his snide remark. Gossip didn’t interest him and he hated encouraging the spread of it by asking for whatever tale Rupert had heard.

‘Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have chapters to write.’ He opened his arms and caught his mother by the shoulders and gently guided her to the hallway. He waved Rupert over and Rupert jogged forward to join them like a summoned spaniel.

‘Perhaps you could discuss my business venture with Lady Ellington,’ Rupert near panted. ‘If she or the Marquess could be convinced to invest—’

‘One thing at a time, Rupert.’ He clapped him on the back, unwilling to solicit the county on his behalf, not when he could devote the same time and energy to selling his next book. Assuming he could write it.

‘Come, Rupert, I’ll show you the new plasterwork in the sitting room before you return to London.’ His mother took Rupert’s arm and led him into the hallway as Warren slid the study door closed.

He sagged against the heavy oak. Lancelot’s eyebrows shifted as he watched his master.

Chapters. Warren had barely written a page today, much a less a whole chapter. It wasn’t for lack of trying. His desk and the floor around it were littered with discarded papers full of useless words for pointless stories of boring characters that went nowhere and would make him no money.

Warren dropped into his chair and stared at the silent and cold collection of books and medieval manuscripts surrounding him. In the midst of it all, he felt as lonely and isolated as he had aboard ship when no one had understood his struggles or his dreams for a different future, except Leticia. And then he’d killed her.

He snatched up his pen and held it over the paper, determined, as then, to forge on. He wouldn’t allow his doubts or guilt to hinder him, not with so much depending on his continued success and the money it would make him. The half-filled page taunted him from the blotter, along with the incessant banging of hammers from somewhere overhead. Pressing the nib to the paper, he wrote one word, then another, determined to push through. He had no choice, there was no one else who could do it or save him.

Chapter Three

Sir Warren still hadn’t made an appearance by the time the butler removed the tea service. Mrs Stevens said he was busy at work and couldn’t be disturbed. More than likely he was avoiding Marianne and her damaged reputation like every other gentleman of quality. The same couldn’t be said of the large portrait of him hanging over the fireplace. It was of Sir Warren at his desk, an open book balanced on his knee, the pen in his hand poised over what must be his next great creation. Mr Smith used to devour Sir Warren’s novels of medieval knights and ladies. Once, during a snow storm, when the family had been stuck inside for three days, he’d read a novel aloud. Marianne had only half-listened. Historical novels were not to her taste.

It wasn’t the open book balanced on his knee or the manuscript which kept bringing her back to the portrait. It was Sir Warren’s posture, the subtle way his body turned, his attention focused on the distance instead of the viewer. His brow shaded his green eyes, stealing their light. The haunted expression hinted at some threat just beyond the frame, something only he could see, like whatever it was that had troubled him at Lady Cartwright’s. It undermined the confidence in his firm grip on the book and reminded her of his pained expression when he’d written out the laudanum recipe after helping Lady Ellington, before he’d darted away from her.

Irritation more than the warm autumn day made her tug at her high collar.

‘How we must be boring you with all our talk of Italian landscapes,’ Mrs Stevens apologised from across the round tea table.

Marianne jerked her attention to Mrs Stevens’s kind round eyes, her son’s eyes, and shook her head. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Liar,’ Mrs Stevens teased. ‘When I was young I used to hate sitting with old ladies and listening to them talk. Lady Ellington tells me you play the pianoforte. We have a lovely Érard in the music room. The man who sold us the house said it was once in the Palace of Versailles, but I’m not sure I believe him.’

‘A French-made Érard!’ Excitement filled Marianne more than when the carriage had approached the house, before it had become obvious Sir Warren had no intention of joining them. ‘I used to play one at the Protestant School in France. Do you play?’

‘Oh, heavens, no.’ She laid a thin hand on her chest. ‘I hate to think of a fine instrument going to waste. If you’d like to try it, you may. It’s just down the hall in the music room. Third door on the left.’

‘May I?’ Marianne asked Lady Ellington, as eager to see the instrument as to escape the staring portrait.

Lady Ellington slid a sly glance at Mrs Stevens whose eyebrow arched a touch. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Marianne threw her companion a questioning look, wondering what she was up to. Lady Ellington ignored it in favour of adjusting the clasp on her diamond bracelet. The ladies must be eager to discuss something more salacious than Italian landscapes out of her hearing. Whatever it was, Lady Ellington would tell her about it later. Her companion didn’t see the need to shield her from reality, not after Marianne had learned so much at Madame de Badeau’s.

Marianne rose and shook out the skirt of her dress. ‘Then I’d be delighted to play.’

‘Wonderful.’ Mrs Stevens beamed as Marianne made for the hallway. ‘Leave the door open so we may hear your beautiful playing.’

Marianne stepped into the long main hall running the length of the front of the house. The faint dragging of a saw across wood and the thud of hammers carried down from somewhere upstairs. She headed left, past the large marble fireplace situated across from the main door, a medieval relic left over from the house’s days as a priory. Mrs Stevens had told them something of the house’s history over tea. Old swords and helmets dotted the panelled walls, creating a more menacing than welcoming effect in the low-ceilinged entrance hall with its thick exposed beams.

She followed the neat line of black-marble diamonds inlaid in the slightly uneven floor, counting the solidly spaced doors with their rounded tops and thick iron handles.

When she reached the third door on the left, she slid one of the wide panels aside, stopping as Sir Warren’s eyes snapped up from his desk to hers. The troubled eyes from the portrait. They widened with shock before crinkling with annoyance, then embarrassment. In front for him were books arranged in an elaborate set of triangles and balanced against one another like a house of cards.

‘You should have knocked.’ Sir Warren jumped to his feet and rounded the desk. The large red dog sitting beside him raised its hindquarters in a stretch before trotting past his owner and up to Marianne. ‘I was working.’

‘Yes, it’s quite a labour.’ She leaned to one side to peer around his solid chest at his creation, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at this unexpected meeting and the cutting realisation he had been avoiding her. ‘Is it a castle or a barn? I can’t tell.’

‘It’s a castle.’ Amusement replaced the flush of anger. ‘I’ll have you know, half of all writing is procrastination.’

‘Then it appears you’re making great progress.’ Marianne tapped the dog lightly on the head with her fingers, then waved him away. He obliged, wandering over to the hearth rug and settling down on the spiral weave.

‘If only I were.’ He dismantled his castle and stacked the books in two neat piles. Then he faced her, leaning back against the desk and admiring her with more amusement than censure. His coat was missing and the wide sleeves of his shirt were flecked with small dots of ink. Dull black boots that wouldn’t pass muster in London covered his calves and feet, and around his neck his cravat sat loose and crooked. ‘Rather bold for a young lady to be wandering alone in a gentleman’s house.’

‘It isn’t the first time I’ve been bold in the presence of a gentleman.’ She approached him, determined to appear confident and collected and reveal nothing of the thrill racing through her at his unguarded humour. It would end soon when he decided it was best to not be alone with her and bolt off to see to some other matter in another part of the house.

‘Nor do I suspect it will be the last.’ Not a speck of derision marred his smile as he stroked his strong jaw. The play of his fingers along his chiselled chin, his sure stance and the curious way he regarded her proved as captivating as the time she’d watched the workers in the Falconbridge Manor fields in the evening, their shirts discarded as they’d swung their scythes. She could picture him among them, the gold sun across his back, his thick arms swinging the blade, the honey skin glistening in the low light. Marianne adjusted her collar, stunned by her suddenly lurid imagination. This wasn’t the way she normally regarded men. It was dangerous.

‘I’ll have you know I wasn’t wandering, but searching for the Érard. Mrs Stevens told me it was in the music room, the third door on the left.’ She couldn’t have counted wrong. Three was not a difficult number.

‘The music room is the second door on the left.’ He cocked his thumb at the wall and the arched door set snug between two bookcases. ‘There’s another entrance through there, if you’d like.’

‘My apologies then. I’ll leave you to your work.’ And make sure it was she and not he who did the quick leave taking this time.

‘No, please, stay.’ He moved to place himself between her and the library door. The dry tang of dusting powder clung to him, punctuated by the faint richness of cedar. It struck her as strongly as his state of undress. It was too intimate for a woman of Marianne’s undeserved reputation.

‘No, I must go.’ She tried to step around him, but he moved first, agile for a man of his robust build. The dog watched them as though he were bored.

‘Please, I’d like it if you’d stay.’

‘Why?’ He wasn’t the first gentleman to try and corner her alone in a room. If he dared to touch her, he also wouldn’t be the first to feel her knee hitting his unmentionables. She’d learned fast how to defend herself against the lecherous gentlemen who used to haunt Madame de Badeau’s. She’d had no choice. The awful woman hadn’t lifted a finger to protect her.

‘I wish to apologise for leaving you so abruptly at Lady Cartwright’s. You were concerned about me and instead of thanking you, I was rude. Please, forgive me?’

She blinked, stunned. No one, not even Madame de Badeau when she’d been dying of fever in Italy, had ever asked for Marianne’s forgiveness. To Hades with his state of undress, she’d stay for this and savour the moment. It would probably be the last time she’d receive an apology from anyone outside Lady Ellington’s house.

‘It’s been quite some time since I’ve attended to a patient,’ he continued in the face of her silence, something of the shadow from the portrait darkening his expression. ‘It brought back a number of painful memories and made me forget my manners.’

‘What memories?’ She didn’t usually pry. People were all too eager to tell her their business and everyone else’s without any entreaty, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking. He hadn’t rushed to condemn or insult her like so many others did. It made her curious and less wary about him than she should have been.

The bang of a dropped board echoed on the floor above them. She thought he wouldn’t answer, but to her surprise, he did.

‘During my time as a surgeon in the Navy, I saw horrors so awful, if I wrote them into my novels, readers would think I’d exaggerated for titillating effect.’ He snapped his fingers and the dog strolled to his side. He dropped his hand on the dog’s head and ruffled the silky fur. ‘For a year or two after I left the Navy, the memories used to trouble me. Usually it would happen at night, but once in a while a familiar smell or something equally trivial would bring them back during the day. Eventually, it stopped and I thought myself past such episodes, but it happened again when I attended to your friend. It’s why I left so quickly. I didn’t wish to explain it to you, or anyone else. It’s not something people outside my family are aware of, or something I’m proud of.’

‘Then why tell me about it?’ It was insults people usually heaped on her, not confidences.

‘You remind me of my sister, someone who might understand and not mock me for it.’

The faint connection they’d shared outside the study at Lady Cartwright’s whispered between them once more. Sir Warren was offering her honesty and respect, treating her like a real person, not a tart to be pawed or derided. It was how she’d always longed to be viewed by strangers, especially gentlemen.

‘No, I couldn’t.’ She fingered a small embroidered flower on her dress. ‘It makes me a little ashamed of how much I pore over my own troubles. They’re nothing compared to yours.’

‘What troubles you, Miss Domville?’ His voice was low and strong, like a physician trying to sooth an anxious patient.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about me?’ She flicked her hand at the study. ‘I’m sure the neighbours rushed over to tell your mother the stories the moment the removers left.’

‘We weren’t here when the removers left and they didn’t remove much. I bought the property lock, stock and barrel.’

‘And no one informed you at Lady Cartwright’s?’ At times, it seemed as if the only topic anyone could discuss.

‘I was delayed and missed the dinner. I left the party as soon as I finished with Lady Ellington. Why don’t you tell me the real story, then I’ll know the truth when Lady Cartwright gives me the exaggerated version.’

Honesty. He was holding it out to her again except this time it would be her sharing instead of him. She shouldn’t, but she was tired of dragging the past and the secret of her lineage around like a heavy chain. Perhaps with this gentleman who treated her like an old friend instead of a pariah, his concern for her as genuine as Lady Ellington’s, she could take the first step to being free of it. ‘You’ve heard of Madame de Badeau?’

‘She was the French courtesan who tried to ruin the Marquess of Falconbridge.’

She nodded as she twisted the slender gold band encircling her little finger. She should leave him as ignorant as everyone else of the truth about her relationship to the woman. She didn’t know him, or have any reason to trust him, except for the strange calm his presence created in her. It reminded her of the first day she’d arrived at Lady Ellington’s after Lord Falconbridge had stumbled on her trying to run away from Madame de Badeau’s. The gracious woman had taken Marianne in her arms as if she were a long-lost daughter. Not even Mrs Nichols or Mrs Smith had ever hugged her so close. Marianne had earned Lady Ellington’s affection by helping her nephew and his wife avoid ruin. Sir Warren owed Marianne nothing, yet he still looked at her as Lady Ellington had that first morning, as if she was as deserving of care and respect as anyone else. She should stay silent, but under the influence of his sincerity, she couldn’t hold back the story any more than she could have held back the tears of relief in Lady Ellington’s embrace.

‘All my life, I and everyone else thought she was my sister. What few people really know is she was my mother. She had me long after her husband, the Chevalier de Badeau, died. She passed me off as her sister to hide her shame. I don’t even know which of her many lovers was my father.’ Her stomach clenched and she thought Mrs Steven’s lemon cakes might come up. She shouldn’t have told him. No one outside the Falconbridge family knew and there was no reason to expect his discretion. If he repeated the story, then the faint acceptance Lady Ellington provided would disappear as everyone recoiled further from the illegitimate daughter of a whore.

She waited for his reaction, expecting him to curl his lip at her in disgust or march into the sitting room and demand his mother have no further dealings with her. Instead, he nodded sagely as if she’d told him her throat hurt, not the secret which had gnawed at her since she’d riffled through Madame de Badeau’s desk four years ago and found the letter revealing the truth.

‘Your mother isn’t the first woman to pass her child off as her sibling,’ he replied at last.

‘You’re not stunned?’ She was.

‘No.’ He turned back to his desk and slid a book off of the top of the stack, an ancient tome with a cracked leather cover and yellowed pages.

His movement left the path to the music room clear. Marianne could bolt out the door, leave him and her foolishness behind, but she held her ground. She wouldn’t act like a coward in front of a man who’d been to war.

He flipped through the book, then held out the open page to her. ‘Lady Matilda of Triano did the same thing in 1152.’

Marianne slid her hands beneath the book, running them over the uneven leather to grasp it when her fingers brushed his. She pulled back, and the tome wobbled on her forearms before she steadied it. It wasn’t fear which made her recoil from him as she used to the men at Madame de Badeau’s. It was the spark his touch had sent racing across her skin. She’d never experienced a reaction like this to a gentleman before.

She stepped back and fixed her attention on the beautiful drawing of a wan woman holding a rose, her blue and red gown a part of the curving and gilded initial, trying not to entertain her shocking response to Sir Warren’s touch. She stole a glimpse at his hands, wondering what they’d feel like against her bare skin. She jerked her attention back to the open book, wondering what she was going on about. She’d spent too many years dodging the wandering hands of Madame de Badeau’s lovers to search out any man’s touch now.

‘She hid her son to keep her brother-in-law from murdering the child when he seized the Duchy of Triano,’ Sir Warren explained, his voice soothing her like a warm bath. ‘The truth came out ten years later when the uncle lay dying and Lady Matilda revealed her son’s identity to secure his rightful inheritance.’

She returned the book to him, careful to keep her fingers away from his. ‘A lovely story, but my mother’s motives weren’t so noble.’

‘You’re not to blame for what your mother did.’ He set down the open book on the desk.

‘You’re the first stranger to think so. Lady Cartwright and the others are determined to believe I’m just as wanton and wicked as Madame de Badeau and they only think she’s my sister. I’m not like her. I never have been.’ It was a declaration she wished she could make in front of every family in the country and London, one she wished deep down even she believed. She was Madame de Badeau’s daughter, it was possible her mother’s sins were ingrained in Marianne and nothing would stop them from eventually coming out.

‘I can see you’re not like her. Not like most women. I recognised it the moment you insisted I help Lady Ellington and then refused to leave her side.’

‘What I did was nothing,’ she whispered, as unused to compliments as she was to embraces.

‘It was everything. I’ve seen men sacrifice themselves for their fellow sailors, hold down their best friends while I sawed off a mangled limb. I’ve also watched cowards leave their comrades to suffer while they steal provisions, or hide in the darkness of the surgeon’s deck with a minor wound to avoid fighting. I doubt Lady Cartwright or any of her other guests would have done half as much as you did for your friend.’

She stared at him, amazed by this near stranger’s faith in her and how freely he offered it to her. It frightened her more than her belief in her own weakness. If it was easily given, it might easily be revoked. She eyed the door to the music room, wanting to be through it and at the keys of the piano and away from this uncertain familiarity. She’d revealed too much already, foolishly making herself vulnerable. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to play now.’

‘Of course.’ He pulled open the door, revealing the stately black instrument dominating the area in front of the large, bowed window at the far end of the room.

She strode to it, relief washing through her. Music was her one constant and comfort, though even this had threatened to leave her once. ‘It’s beautiful.’

She slid on to the bench and raised the cover on the keys. Flexing her fingers over the brilliant white ivory, she began the first chord. The pianoforte was as well tuned as it was grand and each note rang true and deep. They vibrated through her and with each stanza she played, her past, her concerns, Sir Warren and everything faded away until there was nothing but the notes. In them the only true happiness she’d ever known.

* * *

Warren didn’t follow her into the room. He leaned against the door jamb and watched as she drew from the long-silent instrument beautiful music laced with a strange, almost effervescent melancholy. Lancelot came to his side and leaned against Warren’s leg as Warren scratched behind the dog’s ears.

The pianoforte faced the window overlooking the garden. She sat with her back to him so he couldn’t see her face, but the languid way she moved in front of the keys, her arms losing their stiffness for the first time since she’d happened into his study, didn’t escape his notice. The intensity of her focus and the graceful sway of her body in time to the music told him she was no longer here, but carried off by the piece to the same place he drifted to whenever a story fully gripped him. He was glad. She was too young to frown so much or to take in the world, or his compliments, with such distrustful eyes. He wished he could have brought her as much peace as her playing but, like him, her past still troubled her and she had yet to conquer it.

It wasn’t the past facing him today, but the future. No matter how much he wanted to stand here and listen to her, he had to return to work. He needed the money. He left the door open to allow the notes to fill the study. As Warren settled in at his desk, Lancelot stretched out on the hearthrug and returned to his nap. Warren picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and settled it over the last word, ready to write, to create, to weave his tale.

Nothing.

The deep notes of the piano boomed before sliding up the scale into the softer, higher octaves.

He read the last paragraph, hoping to regain the thread of the story. It wasn’t so much a thread as a jumble of sentences as dull as the minutes of Parliament.

The higher notes wavered, then settled into the smooth mid-tones like water in the bottom of a bowl.

He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Today wasn’t going any better than yesterday, or last week or the past year.

He glanced over the top of the pages to where the medieval book lay open. Lady Matilda’s sad yet determined stare met his from the vellum. He reached out and ran one finger over the black lines of her face and eyes. The pensive notes of the pianoforte slid beneath the image, the despair in the lower octaves contradicted by the hope ringing in the brief tinkle of the higher ones.

He chewed the end of his pen as he listened to Miss Domville playing, his teeth finding the familiar grooves as a new story began to separate itself in his mind from his worries and frustration. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The image of a regal lady wearing a fine blue kirtle over a red-velvet dress slid through the mist blanketing a thick forest. Lady Matilda, one slender hand on a damp and knotted oak, paused as if finally ready to reveal what she’d been keeping from him. He rolled the scarred wood of his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the elusive lady threatening to vanish into the mist-covered trees.

‘Come on, out with it,’ he growled, frustrated by her coquetry. He needed her to guide him and help release the steady stream of ideas being held back by this interminable block.

Behind the teasing curve of Lady Matilda’s smile, the melody of Miss Domville’s playing curled like smoke around him and the woman. In the vibrating notes, Lady Matilda’s tale suddenly revealed itself.

He opened his eyes, slid a clean sheet of paper on to the blotter and began to write. The words flowed as fast as the notes of first one piece and then another as page after page took shape beneath his pen. He was so engrossed in the story, an hour later he failed to notice when the music faded into nothingness, the cover pulled down over the keys and soft footsteps left the music room.

The only things which remained were his story and the faint scent of peonies.

Chapter Four

Marianne played the section again and frowned. The last note wasn’t right. She tried the C instead of the D, then nodded. Taking up her pen, she dipped the nib in the inkwell next to the stand and drew a quarter note on the staff. She played the section again, smiling as the stanza fell into place, the first half of her composition nearly complete. Reaching the end of it, she held her foot down on the pedal, allowing the chords to resonate off into the air.

Lady Ellington’s Broadwood was a gorgeous instrument, but not as grand as Sir Warren’s Érard. She wondered how rich and full the piece would sound on his instrument.

Excellent, I’m sure. She picked up the pen and changed the half note at the end to a whole one. She wasn’t likely to play at Priorton Abbey again. Her skin prickled beneath the netting of the fichu covering her chest as the memory of Sir Warren listening to her story about Madame de Badeau came rushing back. She shouldn’t have confided in him. She’d been in a panic for days over her mistake, waiting for any hint of the truth of her parentage to make the rounds. There’d been nothing but silence on the matter. The only gossip she’d heard had concerned Lord Malvern’s near indiscretion with a maid at Lord Cartwright’s hunting party.

She replayed the stanza, holding the end longer to reflect her correction, contemplating Sir Warren’s silence more than her music. With no word from anyone at Priorton since their visit, it was plain the incidents from two weeks ago had been forgotten. It irritated her as much as a missed note, even though she should be glad. She’d allowed his kindness to trick her into revealing her ugly secret. Heaven knew what other mistakes, or deeper weakness, might have been revealed if she’d had the chance to know Sir Warren better.

‘Beautiful, as always, my dear.’ Lady Ellington applauded as Marianne ended the piece. The pianoforte didn’t face the window at Welton Place as it did at Priorton Abbey, preventing the blooming roses in the garden from distracting Marianne while she worked. ‘It’s a shame I’m the only one who ever gets to hear it.’

Marianne closed the red composition book, leaving it on the stand. ‘You’re not the only one. Lady St Onge used to listen to me play before she decided to return to London for the winter.’

‘You know what I mean.’ She sat down on the bench beside her. ‘A letter from Theresa arrived for you.’

Marianne took the missive and flicked the edge with her fingernail, in no mood to read about her friend’s happiness. It only made her lack of it more obvious. Theresa was at Hallington Hall, the estate on the other side of Falconbridge Manor, with her young son, husband and his family. It wasn’t far to travel yet Marianne had barely seen her this summer. She shouldn’t have stayed away. As much as she loved Lady Ellington’s she’d been restless lately for no good reason. The shortening days and cooler weather and the isolation of Welton Place added to her disquiet.

‘This also came for you.’ Lady Ellington handed her a package wrapped in brown paper. A prong holding a diamond in place on one of her rings snagged the securing twine before she freed it. ‘It’s from Priorton Abbey.’

Marianne gripped the package tight, crinkling the smooth paper. He hasn’t forgotten about me. She eased her hold on the slender package, refusing to get her hopes up about Sir Warren’s interest in her or to pine after a man. Her mother had obsessed about Lord Falconbridge and look how that had ended. ‘It must be from Mrs Stevens. Sir Warren wouldn’t send me anything.’

‘Perhaps you charmed him with your playing.’

‘It would be a change from what my presence usually inspires in people.’ The knot came loose and she tugged off the twine.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You inspire more than gossip in many people.’ She squeezed Marianne’s arm. ‘Now open it. I want to see what it is.’

Marianne tore off the paper to reveal the back of a journal. She turned it over and read the handwritten title on the white cover plate. ‘Lady Matilda’s Trials, by Sir Warren Stevens.’

She opened the front cover and a note slipped out from between the pages. She plucked it off the rug then unfolded the card and read aloud the words printed on the thick paper.

Dear Miss Domville,

Enclosed is a copy of my latest manuscript. Your lovely piano-playing was invaluable to the creation of this story. I hope it’s to your liking and I would very much appreciate your thoughts on it before I send it to my publisher.

Your faithful scribe,

Sir Warren

‘My goodness.’ Lady Ellington laid one sparkling hand on her ample bosom, rainbows from her diamonds spraying out over her dark blue dress. ‘I didn’t think the two of you were so well acquainted.’

‘We aren’t. I spent more time with his Érard than I did with him when we visited.’ The spine cracked as she opened the journal. She tapped her toes against the floor, as puzzled as she was flattered by his gift.

Lady Ellington rose. ‘Hurry and read it so you can give him your thoughts on it when we visit them tomorrow.’

Marianne brought her toes down hard against the parquet, leery of another meeting with him. ‘Can’t I simply send him a note?’

‘Not for something like this.’ A wicked twinkle lit up her pale blue eyes before she strode to the door. ‘You’ll have to play for him again and see what else you might inspire.’

Marianne frowned, not quite as amused by the situation as Lady Ellington, but certainly intrigued. She ran her finger over the title on the front of the journal, the one written by Sir Warren. He was asking her, a person he barely knew, to critique his work. It would be like her giving him one of her compositions to play. For all the flowers and stupid poems Lord Bolton had sent her, none had touched her as much as Sir Warren’s simple request.

Leaving the pianoforte, Marianne wandered through the double French doors overlooking the garden, past where the aged gardener, Walker, knelt in front of the rose beds. The heady scent of the summer blooms no longer hung in the air. It had been replaced by the crisp chill of autumn and wet dirt. She strolled along the gravel path, passing the fountain in the middle of Zeus and a nymph in an evocative embrace.

Too evocative. The same could be said about most of the statues scattered throughout the garden. Marianne passed by them without a second look. The peculiarities of Lady Ellington’s brother, the prior Marquess of Falconbridge, and his taste in statuary, didn’t interest her. Instead, with the journal clutched to her chest, she wondered if maybe Lady Ellington was right and it was time to stop hiding away from the world at Welton Place. If a famous man like Sir Warren could see the value in an acquaintance with her, perhaps some other gentlemen who weren’t Lord Bolton might do the same. It was almost enough to convince her to accept Lady Ellington’s offer of a Season in London, but not quite.

She reached the far side of the garden and followed the path winding up through the copse of trees to the brick orangery hidden among the oaks. Arched and latticed windows marked the front-left side while those to the right had been bricked in. She stepped through the double doors and into the comfortably furnished garden building. Sets of bergère chairs with generous cushions all done in the Louis XV style dominated the window side of the room. A tall screen embroidered with a mythic scene of Apollo seducing Calliope, as shocking in its depiction of love as the garden statuary, shielded a wide sofa situated in the darker half. The gaudy gilding reminded Marianne more of her mother’s boudoir than it did an outbuilding. Like the garden, the orangery owed its decorations to the old Marquess, a bachelor rake she’d heard so much about from Madame de Badeau she’d often wondered if the woman hadn’t bedded him too.

The orangery, despite its gaudy and erotic decorations, was, for Marianne, a small retreat from the dower house and a good place to be alone. She’d come here after more than one afternoon party to fume over the whisperings of Miss Cartwright or Lady Astley.

She chose a comfortable chair near a window and settled in to read Sir Warren’s note again. His handwriting was bold, each letter crafted from slashing lines and thick strokes. It was a stark contrast to the small flourishes and graceful twirls which filled her composition book.

She read it a third time, but nothing about the words changed. Like the Smiths’ daughter, who used to pore over each ‘good morning’ from the farmer’s son hoping there was more to the salutation, Marianne was looking for a deeper meaning which wasn’t there. It was silly of her to do so. She’d learned long ago at Madame de Badeau’s that when a man said something it was what he meant and little more. If Sir Warren was thanking her for inspiration, then he was thanking her. It didn’t mean she’d sent him into raptures. She stuffed the note in the back cover, glad not to arouse a grand passion in a man. Other people’s passions had already caused her no end of troubles.

She set to reading, focusing on Sir Warren’s work instead of him, determined to be worthy of his faith in her. However, with each turn of the page, each paragraph outlining Lady Matilda’s story, disbelief and dismay began to undermine the peace of the orangery. By the time she reached the end of the manuscript, Marianne wanted to toss the journal in the fountain at the bottom of the hill and watch the thing turn soggy and sink. She couldn’t. It was too good a story. Too bad it was hers.

* * *

‘I didn’t work so hard to gain Priorton to sell it off piece by piece the moment things get difficult,’ Warren insisted, his boots coming down hard on the stone of the cloistered walk in the garden. Lancelot trotted beside him, panting lightly. The garden ran wild in the current fashion, leading from the back of Priorton to the tree line beyond. In the centre of it, weathered stone statues lounged between the beds of dying summer plants and wildflowers.

‘Then you must let some of the field labourers go,’ Mr Reed, Warren’s bespectacled man of affairs warned, on Warren’s heels as they returned to the house after surveying the fields. The harvest had been good this year, but not nearly as profitable as either of them had hoped, or counted on.

‘No, not with winter coming. I won’t see families suffer because of my mistakes.’ He, his mother and Leticia had suffered because of his father’s financial mistakes. His father had been a good man, but he’d been careless in the management of his school, never charging enough or collecting what was due and leaving his family near destitute when he died. After refusing to apply for relief in the very parish where his father had preached, they’d been forced to rely on Warren’s reluctant bachelor uncle for support. It had been his uncle’s brilliant idea for Warren to enlist and save the time and money required by a lengthy apprenticeship. At sixteen, the clean, comfortable life Warren had known had been ripped from him and replaced with gore and filth, and the need to support his sister and mother. He still hated the old salt for forcing Warren into it and resented his father for failing to leave his family with means. He wouldn’t visit the same misery on other families, especially those under his care.

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