Chapter 1
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not regard me as though I have suggested a most scandalous thing!” The Marchioness of Witham, better known in private as Aunt Sophia, let her ostrich feather fan fall in despair. “It is only a dance, Nancy.”
Nancy did not lower her gaze, nor did she soften her expression, which had been known to intimidate even the oldest duchesses in the kingdom.
“This ballroom is filled with nothing but dandies and rakes. If you force me to waltz with one of them, I fear you shall have to scrape my remains off the parquet.”
The fan snapped shut. “That is not witty, Nancy.”
“Wasn’t it? I shall do better. Give me a moment. Besides, it is a fall ball. I would have been more eager if it were a ball during the Season.”
“I mean it.” Sophia’s face crumpled, though the effect was minimized by an excess of pearl-powder and the formidable structure of her headdress. “I am at my wits’ end. Three seasons. Three! And you remain as intractable as a cask of Highland whisky.”
Nancy ran a finger along the edge of her own dance card, which was as empty as a brand-new ledger. “A compliment, surely.”
“Twenty-two, and still you refuse every eligible bachelor presented to you. If your father were here—”
“He would have joined me in the corner, drinking brandy and reciting Roman poetry until the house collapsed.”
“He would be heartbroken, Nancy. You know how he adores you. And he wishes—”
“That I would marry a perfect Englishman and forget my mother’s blood.” Nancy smiled, but her eyes did not. “Luckily, I am an only child. No one else’s prospects are at risk.”
Sophia patted at her cheek, as though hoping to jar a fresh idea loose. “I despair.”
“There is always hope,” Nancy offered, with just enough Scottish burr to remind her aunt what hope had produced in the last generation of Gallaghers.
From across the crowded room, Lord Wortham approached with the loose-jointed enthusiasm of a Weimaraner let off its lead. Nancy’s lips parted in a silent prayer for deliverance, which arrived immediately in the form of Lord Wortham himself.
“Lady Nancy!” he announced. “What a dazzling vision you present this evening. I am quite undone.”
She considered informing him that she felt the same, in the sense of coming apart at the seams, but elected to preserve his fragile dignity. “How generous, my lord.”
“Not generous at all. Only accurate. Why, it is as though Apollo himself has sent you to torment me.”
“Do you mean Cupid?” Nancy asked.
“Cupid was never so elegant, nor so cruel,” Wortham replied with alarming sincerity. “May I have the honor of the next dance?”
Nancy made a great show of consulting her pristine card. “I’m so sorry. My card is full to bursting.”
He blinked at it. “I see.”
Sophia intervened, perhaps out of a sense of civic duty. “If I may, Lord Wortham—Nancy’s father expects her home before midnight. We have an early morning.”
“Ah!” said Wortham, visibly relieved to retreat. “The Duke of Neads is appropriately strict, I know it well. But perhaps—”
“Perhaps the next assembly,” Sophia finished, fanning vigorously.
Wortham bowed himself away, sidestepping a passing tray of ratafia and nearly colliding with Lady Bessington. He would probably survive to try again. Most of them did.
Nancy flexed her fingers, which had begun to ache from restraint. “They do not improve with age, do they?”
“Who?” Sophia looked distracted, scanning the room for some other, more compliant niece.
“The men.”
“Oh, Nancy.” Sophia drew her closer, voice dropping to a tragic whisper. “You must try. Just once, try.”
Nancy’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-wound. “I do try. It is only that the field is so poor.”
“The field is every unmarried man in England, and you are a duke’s daughter.”
“Yes, but the sheep are mostly diseased or intent on biting.”
Before Sophia could conjure a reply, Nancy’s attention was caught by the arrival of her favorite allies, three women who alone made London bearable: Fiona Glacion, the Duchess of Craton, radiant in pale blue and already halfway through a petit four; Hester Green, the sharp-eyed and impeccably put together Duchess of Lushton, though her bandeau was far better tied than her husband’s cravat; and, trailing them, the new addition—Lady Lavinia Pembroke, who moved with the tentative grace of a field mouse placed in a roomful of cats.
“I was beginning to think you’d expired,” Nancy said, sweeping Fiona and Hester into a huddle, then, remembering herself, inclining her head politely at Lavinia. “Or that your husbands had locked you up for safety.”
“Hah!” Hester popped a candied almond into her mouth. “Thomas can barely unlock his own desk. We escaped easily.”
Fiona linked arms with Nancy. “Did you see Lady Burnham’s dress? I heard the entire thing was stitched in Paris, but I am convinced I saw the same lace last week in a Soho shop window.”
“You mean the curtains?” said Nancy.
“Exactly so!”
Lavinia smiled nervously, one hand tightening over her reticule. Nancy considered her, then decided she liked her—Lavinia’s silences were not empty, but watchful, full of careful listening. Nancy respected that.
“Oh, did you hear from Anna?” Fiona asked. “She is somewhere on the continent—Florence, I think? She sends regards and says the food alone is worth the journey.”
Hester snorted. “If I had her money, I’d eat my way across Italy as well.”
They laughed, a brief riot of mirth that startled the footmen and attracted a glare from Lady Pemberly at the next table.
Sophia, catching the edge of the conversation, seized Lavinia’s hand. “My dear, you must help me persuade Nancy. She will not dance, not even with the best of them.”
Lavinia went slightly pink. “I am afraid I am a poor example. I have not danced once this season.”
“That is a crime,” said Hester, who seemed to enjoy declaring things criminal.
“It is a preference,” Lavinia countered, and Nancy admired her even more.
Fiona turned, eyes bright. “Have you heard the news from Scarfield?”
Nancy’s chest tightened, but she kept her voice light. “Is that the story about the stable fire? I heard it was exaggerated.”
“Oh, no, that was last month. This is quite different.” Fiona leaned in. “You remember the younger Rowson brother? The one who married the housemaid?”
Nancy kept her hands steady, though her fan now trembled, only a little. “Yes. Vaguely. They say it was quite a love match.”
Fiona nodded. “He died, you know. Two years past, in a terrible accident.”
“I remember.” The words tasted sour. “Why do you mention it?”
Hester looked from Nancy to Fiona, waiting for the punchline.
“Well,” Fiona said, “the wife—who used to be a housemaid, Teresa—she died last week. Fever. It was very sudden.”
The world seemed to shrink to the circle of lamplight around their little gathering. Nancy’s vision blurred at the edges, but she forced herself to smile, even as her stomach dropped to her shoes.
“That is sad news,” Nancy said. Her tongue felt unfamiliar in her mouth. “What will happen to the children?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Fiona’s brows lifted. “There are twins. Only five. Boys, I think. Or one of each?”
Nancy’s fingers closed tight around her fan, hard enough to leave a mark in the leather. “No. I didn’t know.” The lie was effortless; she had been lying for years.
Lavinia’s quiet voice interjected, “Surely the family will take them in?”
“That’s the thing!” Hester was suddenly animated. “No one expected it, but the Duke—Scarfield himself—has stepped in. He’s to be their guardian, or so Lady Rawlings told me. Can you imagine?”
Aunt Sophia, who had been surreptitiously eavesdropping, clucked her tongue. “Scarfield? He’s barely fit to mind his own affairs. The man is a public disgrace.”
Hester grinned. “Which makes it all the more delicious. I wager the ton will be discussing it for months.”
Nancy’s heart was thundering, but she maintained her usual outward calm. It cannot be. He cannot have them. The children—
Fiona nudged her, smiling. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Nancy.”
“Only the ghosts of my own prospects,” she said, willing her face into its familiar mask.
But Fiona frowned, studying her. “Are you quite well?”
“I believe I have developed a headache.” Nancy found her aunt’s arm, clung to it, and—before anyone could argue—announced, “We must go. Now.”
Sophia sputtered, “But the dancing—”
“Is beyond hope,” Nancy said. “Truly, I am unwell.”
The four friends exchanged looks as Sophia, defeated, gathered her shawl and her dignity.
“I shall call tomorrow,” Fiona said softly, as Nancy walked away.
Nancy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The door to the ballroom seemed impossibly far. On the street, the air was sharp with mist and coal smoke. Sophia’s carriage awaited, a dark boxy shadow in the lamplight.
Inside, Sophia muttered about missed opportunities and the cruelty of fate. Nancy watched the world pass through a fogged window. She tried to steady her breathing. Her hands would not stop shaking.
When the carriage rolled to a stop before their townhouse, Sophia braced a hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “If you are truly ill, you must not attend the matinee tomorrow. I shall send word to the doctor—”
“No, Aunt,” Nancy said, voice soft but steady. “It is only that I am tired. That is all.”
She took her candle and climbed the stairs, pausing at the top. For a long moment, she stood silent in the dark, listening for anything to steady herself—a voice, a memory, anything.
Finally, she whispered, “I must go to them. I must protect the children. From him.”