Chapter 1
March 21st, 1814
Mr. Garde’s Townhouse, London
James Kingston, the Duke of Thornhill, had one hour to convince Mr. Garde that he should send his wife to live with her sister before racing across town to meet his future mistress, the acclaimed courtesan, Violet Lefevre. One hour and the pieces of his life would be in place. He’d have the respect of his fellow peers, his estates organized, his family safe and secure—in the country—and the perfect mistress. If only Mr. Garde would say yes.
“No,” Mr. Garde said, his portly frame swaying as if he were standing on the deck of a moving vessel. He waited a beat before adding, “Your Grace.”
“Your wife has petitioned Parliament for a divorce.” James stood just inside the door to the man’s study, hat in hand. He studied the scattered fragments of a vase that lay on the floor before him. A wooden desk stood a few paces beyond the sofa and a well-worn armchair. The desk was empty. It appeared the piles of papers had been tossed around the room. “She claims that you abused her.”
“Ha!” Mr. Garde stumbled over to his desk, bent over and opened a drawer. James crossed to the armchair, placing the piece of furniture between himself and Mr. Garde on the off chance the man pulled out a pistol. The chair was hardly bulletproof, but it was better than his hat.
The accused wife-beater withdrew a bottle of port and two glasses. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Mr. Garde poured the ruby liquid into first one glass and then the second.
Bloody Hell. This would have been an impossible task if Mr. Garde had been sober, but drunk? James glanced at the clock resting on the mantle over the fireplace. Quarter past. He was going to be late to meet Violet. Perhaps she would be in a forgiving mood? She had been in the past—for a price. Nearly a decade ago, when Violet had first appeared in London, James had been her first patron, which was largely why he wished to secure her favors now. Tonight. If only he could dispense with the drunken Mr. Garde.
“Mr. Garde, your wife. She claims—”
“T’was nothing more than a pat on the bottom,” Mr. Garde said.
A pat on the bottom? “Your wife broke her leg two months past. She claims you threw her against a wall and down the stairs.” James dug his fingers into his hat. He’d heard those words before—from his father. Apparently, James’s mother had deserved a pat on the bottom every few months as well. The memory flooded his mind: the enraged duke hollering as his boot collided with his wife’s face. It was the face that reminded him of bedtime fairy tales and goodnight kisses.
James studied the portly Mr. Garde as the memories washed over him, the old fears returning. Would he find himself in a similar state if he dared to wed? The previous Duke of Thornhill had been a violent monster; one James had gladly buried a decade earlier. But he knew he’d inherited the late bastard’s temper. He’d learned to rein in his anger and had long ago vowed to avoid the parson’s noose in the hopes that he would never find himself in Mr. Garde’s shoes.
“And who is to tell me how I should handle my wife?” The drunken man’s words forced James to cast aside his thoughts and focus on the matter at hand.
“If Parliament considers the matter, you and your wife will find yourselves knee-deep in scandal,” James said, through clenched teeth. It took all his willpower to keep his hands off Mr. Garde. Given that the man was deep in his cups and stood a full head shorter than him, James knew he could best him in a fight. James trained regularly at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing school, while Mr. Garde clearly focused on expanding his waistline. His opponent might be able to overpower his small mouse of a wife, but James? Not likely.
“I am well versed in the law, Your Grace.” Mr. Garde downed the remains of his glass and reached for the second. “If my wife wishes to seek a divorce with the aid of you and your friends in Parliament, she must first seek a separation through the Church. Only then would Parliament consider her petition.”
He was right, of course. Parliament wished to hand this matter off to the Church. No one even knew James had come here tonight with every intention of convincing this wretched sot to send his wife to live in the country, protected by her family.
“How much?” James asked. A ruby necklace—his final gift to Violet before they finalized their agreement—was practically burning a hole in his pocket. He had to leave. Now. Or Violet would demand another token before she agreed to share his bed. Between his duties to his title and obligations in Parliament, he simply hadn’t he time to court the courtesan for another fortnight. “I wish to purchase her safety.”
“You wish to buy my wife, Your Grace?” The drunkard threw back his head and laughed.
James summoned his most severe ducal stare, an expression that usually left far more intelligent men shaking in their boots. “How much to ensure you will send Mrs. Garde to live with her sister?”
Mr. Garde reached for the port. “She is not for sale.”
James crossed the room and plucked the bottle from the drunken man’s hand. “One hundred pounds.”
Mr. Garde glared at him and reached for the port. But James was faster. He stepped out of his opponent’s reach.
“Five hundred pounds. That is my final offer.” James glanced over Mr. Garde’s shoulder to the mantle clock. Half-past. It had taken him a month to convince Violet to accept him as her patron for a second time. Thirty days of teasing and brief kisses had whet his appetite and now when the prize was finally within his grasp, he was too busy saving Mrs. Garde, a woman he’d only met once in passing. “Take it and I will return your port and arrange transport for you wife. You have my word.”
“Sold.”
James felt the tension in his shoulder dissipate. He could leave. He glanced at the entrance to the hall. He could walk out the door—
What the Devil?
A small figure dressed head to toe in black scurried past the open doorway. A second larger figure followed carrying . . .
…Mrs. Garde.
James released the bottle. It fell to the floor and smashed into pieces. Liquor splashed his Hessian boots.
“My port!” Mr. Garde cried. He leaned forward to rescue his liquor and followed the bottle to the ground.
James glanced down. “Good night, sir.” Maintaining his composure, James fought the urge to run. He was free. Someone had saved Mrs. Garde without his help. If he left now, he could race across town and lose himself in Violet’s arms. He could forget about Mrs. Garde and her drunken, abusive husband.
Only he couldn’t.
Whoever had stolen Mrs. Garde might very well encounter a loyal servant at the rear entrance. If the poor woman was returned to her husband after trying to escape, he might break more than her leg.
James turned towards the rear of the house. Violet might never forgive him if he failed to show at all, but he had no choice.
He stumbled into Mrs. Garde’s rescuers—literally bumping into the smaller man as he turned the corner in the poorly lit corridor. The man fell forward onto his knees, losing his hat in the process.
“I mean you no harm,” James whispered. “I merely wished to see if I could be of some assistance.”
Still on all fours, the man looked up. He wore ill-fitted breeches and possessed a head of shoulder-length blond curls; he was—
—a woman.
And not just any woman.
“Lady Amelia?” James gasped.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Lady Amelia, daughter to the Duke of Blenheim, pushed herself up off the ground, hat in hand. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
“Saving Mrs. Garde.” Amelia motioned for the second person—also a woman, though a fair bit older—to continue down the hall. “Without spending five hundred pounds.”
James blinked. He’d known Amelia for years. He’d encountered her in ballrooms, in his friends’ homes, and countless times while visiting her father, but always from across the room or across the dinner table. He knew her to be bold, opinionated, and stunningly beautiful when observed from a suitable distance. And James had always kept his distance. He’d never been this close to Lady Amelia. Close enough to smell her.
She smelled like his late mother’s rose garden on wicked summer night—a surprising mix of innocence and pure sin. James drew a deep breath. Brandy. She was stealing a man’s wife in the dead of night smelling like a bottle of French liquor.
“You should not be here.” James moved past her and took Mrs. Garde’s motionless body from Amelia’s accomplice. He looped one arm under her knees and the other under her upper back. Mrs. Garde rested against his chest as if she were a doll instead of a living, breathing human being. They must have drugged her.
Hardly surprising given Lady Amelia’s reputation. She was often called London’s queen of wild schemes, due to her brazen matchmaking attempts. This was a step beyond matchmaking. She should not be here. Bloody Hell, she should not be dressed as a boy. “You’re wearing breeches.”
“It is rather difficult to sneak around unobserved in a ball gown.” She slipped past him and his gaze dropped to her backside. The black breeches hugged her bottom making it was difficult to recall why he’d been eager to race across town to Violet’s bed.
James turned his attention to the wall. He shouldn’t look. He should not notice her perfect bottom, or her lively blue eyes, or her ample bosom that begged to be touched. Her father was his friend—a man he respected—and a political ally.
He inhaled.
Brandy and roses. Summer and sin.
Intoxicating.
To request a partial or full manuscript, please contact Sarah.