An Arranged Marriage (The Company of Rogues #1)

Chapter 1

Eleanor Chivenham lay in the big bed and shivered.

There was no fire in her room, and for late April the weather was unseasonably cold.

The ill-fitting window rattled and let in a steady stream of chilly, damp air, but this was not what caused her tremors.

They came from the noises reaching her from the lower floors of her brother’s house.

Crashes, raucous singing, and shrieks of feminine laughter told of yet another debauch.

It had been the same nearly every night during the two months she had lived in the narrow house on Derby Square. The days were little better, for the house was constantly dirty and stale from the previous evening, and the staff were slovenly and impudent.

Eleanor sighed for her home, Chivenham Hall in Bedfordshire.

She had been left there in peace by her brother, Lionel, until he had finally sold the place to pay his debts.

True, it had not been a life of luxury, for only three servants had stayed to receive Lionel’s mean wages.

So little money had been provided to run the place that they had been reduced to eating only what they could grow themselves, and repairing and patching the old building as best they could.

But it had been tranquil and she had been free. Free to read in the library, to walk about the countryside and visit with the local people she had known all her life. Here in Derby Square there were no books a lady would care to read, no parks nearby to compare to the country, and no friends.

She was sometimes tempted to run back to Bedfordshire and live on the charity of friends, but not yet.

For under her father’s will, if she left her brother’s “protection” before the age of twenty-five, she would forfeit her inheritance to him.

That would suit him well, she knew, as he had already run through most of his patrimony.

A particularly loud shriek made Eleanor cower down further and pull the thin blankets around her ears.

Her brother’s poverty did not seem to moderate his entertainment.

Could she endure this for two more years until she came into control of her own affairs?

She had rarely been successful in opposing Lionel.

He fooled people so easily, not least their parents, and he was skilled at maneuvering Eleanor into situations where she showed to disadvantage.

If Lionel had sold the country estate solely in order to make her life under his protection impossible, she had to admit he might well succeed.

Footsteps, accompanied by giggling whispers, passed by her door.

Eleanor reassured herself that she was quite safe from the debauchery, slipping out of bed to check that both the door to the corridor and the one to the adjoining dressing room were securely locked as usual.

She smiled slightly at her own fears. The latter had been locked for so long that the key was lost.

At the same time, she felt it was wise to take every precaution. Though she believed there were limits to what her brother would do to obtain her inheritance, he was becoming increasingly desperate. His debts were doubtless mounting.

Lionel had cornered her two days ago to congratulate her on receiving an offer of marriage.

“Who could have offered for me?” she had asked in surprise. “I know no one.”

“Come, come, sister dear,” he said with a smirk. “I have occasionally introduced you to my guests, when you do not shyly run away.”

“It is not shyness,” Eleanor said tartly, “but nausea which makes me run, brother.”

He laughed. It was his response to every unpleasantness. “You’re a mite particular for a lady well past her last prayers, Nell. You’re twenty-three—positively antiquated—and yet here I am with a possibility for you. How would you fancy to be a lady, eh?”

“I am a lady,” she retorted. “If you talk of marriage, I tell you, brother, you do not number any gentlemen among your acquaintance.”

“An earl, my dear, has no need to be a gentleman. Lord Deveril is most anxious to woo you.”

Deveril! Eleanor shuddered even now at the thought of him.

The worst of her brother’s cronies, if he could be called that at all.

He was more an incarnation of evil itself.

Lionel, after all, was only twenty-five years old.

He was naturally selfish and malicious, but no more than that.

It was Deveril, or so it seemed to Eleanor, who had introduced evil into his life in the form of drunkenness, drugs from the East, and vicious amusements.

“I will never marry Lord Deveril,” she had said with absolute certainty. She would die first.

“So haughty!” he had sneered, but she had seen he was put out. He wanted this marriage. “Lord Deveril has a way of getting what he desires, Nell, and he would be more inclined to kindness if you were to go willingly.”

“He does not know what kindness is. Mark my words, Lionel, the answer is no and will always be no, do what you will. I will never be forced so low!”

She shivered slightly now at the defiance she had flung at him.

It had been foolhardy, but she had been driven by fear—fear of Deveril with his cadaverous body, moist lips, and snake eyes.

He even smelled like a corpse. She shuddered at the thought.

Life under Lionel’s dubious protection was infinitely preferable.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock at the door. “Who is it?”

“It be Nancy, Miz Eleanor. I brung you a hot drink, ma’am. A body couldn’t be sleeping through this lot.”

The voice was as soft as it could be and still carry through the door.

Nancy was quite new to the house. She was young, pretty, and perhaps sly, but she had treated Eleanor with respect, and the thought of a hot drink was pleasant.

The girl was right. The chance of sleeping seemed remote for hours to come.

Eleanor padded across the threadbare carpet, shuddering in the chill even in her voluminous flannelette nightgown, and cautiously opened the door. There was only the maid standing there, red hair slightly disheveled, with a covered nightcup in hand.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Eleanor said as she took the cup. “This is very thoughtful of you.” She tried to repay kindness with kindness. “You would be well advised not to return below.”

The girl colored, but gave her a saucy look. “I must do what Master sez,” she retorted. Her thick accent spoke poignantly of the country life only recently abandoned for the greater opportunities of the city.

Eleanor signed. “As you will. Thank you, anyway.”

She felt so sorry for such as Nancy. When the inevitable happened she would be thrown out to live as best she might. Beyond a warning, however, Eleanor was powerless. She carefully locked the door before hurrying back under the blankets.

The bed felt pleasantly warm after the chill of the air, and the aroma of the spiced milk lifted Eleanor’s spirits. She sipped. Goodness, there seemed to be a little rum in it, too. It was overly sweet for her taste, but it was comforting and she drank it down. She snuggled under the covers again.

The drink had relaxed her, and she soon found herself dozing, less bothered by the sounds from below. She did not know whether she had slept or not when a noise teased at her consciousness.

A lock scraping.

The long-unused door to the dressing room was squeaking open.

To her horror, Eleanor found that her limbs seemed to be weighted and nerveless, her mind tangled in wool.

Her vision was blurred even though she blinked to clear it.

Worse still, she could only focus on one small spot at a time, and that only by great effort.

Struggling, she heaved herself up a little in the bed and saw the girl, Nancy, come over to her.

“Happen you’re not comfy with that plait, Miz,” Nancy murmured with a smirk as her fingers went to work.

Eleanor would have liked to object, but it seemed too much effort.

If she slept with her long hair unbound, it would be in a terrible tangle in the morning.

The girl was only trying to be kind, though.

But what on earth was she doing to the buttons of the nightdress?

Nancy pushed her gently down again. “There, miz. That’s right pretty.”

Eleanor gratefully allowed sleep to claim her again.

Meanwhile, in the disordered drawing room below, a stranger to Lionel Chivenham’s set was finding the night equally nightmarish.

Christopher Delaney, Lord Stainbridge, had intended only a peaceful evening at White’s, but as he left he had been gathered up—that was the only way he could think of it—by Chivenham and some of his cronies gaily celebrating the end of Napoleon and the return to power of the Bourbons.

Short of violence, he had found no way to disentangle himself.

He was not a violent man, and after all, he and Chivenham had been in the same form at Eton, though he had never liked the man.

Though he had permitted himself to be swept along to Chivenham’s house, one look at the company there had determined him on an early exit.

To his surprise, however, he had found one kindred spirit, a Frenchman with an interest in Chinese porcelain and art almost as strong as his own.

Somehow the time had passed and a quantity of wine had been drunk as they explored the subject.

They’d studied a few select items that Monsieur Boileau had brought for Sir Lionel’s consideration. Only later would it occur to Lord Stainbridge to wonder why a debt-ridden Philistine such as Chivenham would be interested in valuable works of art.

Sir Lionel came over to join the pair. He picked up a graceful jade horse. “A delightful piece, is it not, Stainbridge?”

“Exquisite.” Lord Stainbridge felt the word did not come out with quite the precision he would have wished. He feared he might be slightly foxed, a most unusual occurrence, for he was moderate in drink.