Chapter 1 Midnight Catastrophe
Midnight Catastrophe
There was a woman chained to his railing on the balcony.
Edmund Emery Cartwright, Duke of St. Albans, stood frozen in his shirtsleeves, having just dismissed his valet for the evening.
The French doors to his private balcony were thrown wide to catch the cool May breeze, and there, wrapped in enough chain to anchor a yacht, sat a young woman in pink muslin, looking rather pleased with herself despite… being chained to the railing.
The moonlight caught the metal links that wound around her trim waist like some medieval chastity device, fed through a pair of what appeared to be Bow Street Runner handcuffs securing her wrists in front of her, the chain then continuing to a formidable lock that fixed the entire apparatus to his Italian marble balustrade.
She tilted her chin up at him with the sort of pride one usually saw in the Battle of Waterloo’s veterans.
Edmund sighed and ran a hand through his artfully tousled dark hair—the exact shade that Lady Poulett had compared to “midnight sin” at a soirée a week past. He was aware of the picture he made, backlit by his bedroom lamps, his evening coat discarded and his fine lawn shirt open at the throat.
He’d sent stronger women into swoons without even trying.
“I suppose,” he drawled, stepping onto the balcony with deliberate nonchalance, “this is some new fashion I haven’t heard about? Ladies chaining themselves to architecture?”
Her eyes—rather fine eyes, the color of his prized cognac—flashed with indignation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“My dear girl, I’m not the one who appears to have raided a shipping warehouse for evening wear.” He gestured to the chains. “Though I must say, the effect is quite striking. You should start a trend.”
She shifted, and the chains clanked ominously against the stone. “I have a request you won’t likely agree to. I thought it prudent to attach myself to your home, so you can’t escort me from the premises too easily.”
“Ah.” Edmund leaned against the doorframe, affecting his most devastating smile, the one that had caused the Countess of Marlborough to walk into a potted palm.
“How refreshingly honest. Though I confess, most ladies who wish to secure my attention simply drop their handkerchiefs. Occasionally a glove. Miss Worthington once pretended to faint directly into my arms at Almack’s, though she rather miscalculated and ended up in the punch bowl. ”
The girl’s cheeks flushed as pink as her dress. “Do you mean to say you would have granted me an audience without… this?”
“That depends entirely on what you’re after.
” He let his voice drop to the intimate register that usually had ladies reaching for their fans.
“If it’s a private moment in the moonlight you want, there are far more comfortable locations than my balcony.
The conservatory, for instance, has excellent cushions—”
“How dare you!” She jangled her chains indignantly, sounding like an angry Christmas sleigh. “What kind of lady do you take me for?”
“The kind that breaks into a gentleman’s home and chains herself to his railings? Forgive me, but Emily Post hasn’t yet covered the proper etiquette for this situation.”
“I’m not here for any improper purpose, thank you very much. And it’s not breaking in when the doors were wide open.”
“A technicality.” Edmund noticed how the moonlight caught the golden threads in her hair, which was coming delightfully undone from what must have been a very proper chignon. “Then pray tell, what earth-shattering emergency has driven you to ironmongery?”
She straightened her spine, attempting dignity despite the chains. “The Corn Laws, Your Grace.”
Edmund blinked. Of all the things he’d expected—a forced proposal, a blackmail attempt, perhaps a gift from his friends—economic policy hadn’t made the list.
“You’ve chained yourself to my balcony over grain tariffs?”
“Father desperately needs your vote against Peel’s repeal.
” Her voice rose with passion, and Edmund noticed her hands were trembling slightly where they gripped the chains.
“If the protections are removed and cheap grain floods in from abroad, our agricultural rents will be halved within the year. The mortgages on our estates come due in eight weeks, and without that income…”
She paused, swallowing hard, and for a moment looked impossibly young. “We’ll lose everything. Doverheath Hall, where my grandmother was born. The village where half the families have worked our land for generations. Three centuries of history, sold to some coal merchant or railway speculator.”
“And you are?”
“Lady Prudence Jewell, daughter of the Earl of Dover.”
Edmund’s hand moved to his temple, where a headache was definitely forming.
The Earl of Dover… that pompous, insufferable windbag who’d made his father’s life miserable over the Speenhamland System, whose own father had fought Edmund’s grandfather tooth and nail over the Enclosure Acts.
The man who’d once called Edmund’s mother “that French upstart” at a state dinner.
“Did your father send you?” He studied her face, looking for signs of deception, but found only earnest determination mixed with subtle signs of trepidation.
“Good heavens, no!” She looked horrified. “He’d have an apoplectic fit if he knew. He thinks ladies should confine themselves to needlework and occasional fainting. I had to read The Times in secret just to understand what was happening.”
“So, you’re telling me,” Edmund said slowly, “that you—a gently bred young lady with, I assume, zero political experience beyond whatever you’ve gleaned from pilfered newspapers—decided entirely on your own to risk complete social ruin by chaining yourself to my balcony to force my hand in a Parliamentary vote? ”
“When you put it like that, it sounds rather mad.” She bit her lip. “But yes.”
“Good God.” Edmund couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re either the bravest or most foolish woman I’ve ever encountered.”
“Possibly both.” She lifted her chin. “Father has tried everything else with you. He’s appealed to your sense of tradition, which apparently you lack. He’s promised political alliances, which you’ve spurned. He even offered his vote on your railway bill—”
“That railway bill would bring prosperity to hundreds of working families,” Edmund interrupted.
“While the Corn Laws repeal will destroy hundreds of estate families!” She leaned forward as much as the chains would allow, and Edmund caught a whiff of something floral that reminded him of wildflowers.
“Father paces the library until dawn. Mother has taken to her bed with nervous complaints and threatens to prostrate herself at your feet in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. Can you imagine? The Countess of Dover, on her knees in front of the entire ton?”
“A disturbing image indeed.”
“Particularly as it would require four footmen and possibly a winch system to raise her again. Mother is… substantially built.”
Edmund found himself fighting a smile. The girl had wit, even if she was hopelessly naive about how the world worked. “And you thought this”—he gestured to her chains—“was a better solution?”
“I’ve requested an audience through proper channels six times. Six! Always with my companion, always at appropriate hours. Your secretary has an entire collection of my calling cards. But you never receive me.”
“I don’t receive any unmarried ladies. It prevents… complications.”
“What sort of complications?”
He gave her his most wolfish smile. “The sort that usually end in either marriage proposals or dueling challenges. Sometimes both.”
She rolled her eyes—actually rolled her eyes at him. “You have an exceedingly high opinion of yourself, Your Grace.”
“It’s not opinion when it’s fact. Ask anyone. Ask Lady Poulett, though she might swoon before answering. Ask Miss Worthington—”
“The one who ended up in the punch bowl?”
“She was overcome by my presence.”
“Or by too much ratafia.” She shifted, wincing as the chains dug into… he tilted his head for a better angle… her waist… a womanly waist that flared out to generous—
“Now then, will you vote against the repeal or not? Because I’ll stay here all night if necessary.
I’ve come prepared.” With her shackled hands, she dug into her reticule and produced what appeared to be a squashed sandwich.
“Ham and mustard. And I’ve got a flask of lemonade somewhere in these chains. ”
Edmund stared at her. In all his thirty-two years, through countless Seasons and more marriage-minded mamas than he could count, he’d never encountered anything quite like Lady Prudence, destroyer of propriety, wielder of chains, and bearer of midnight sandwiches.
“The vote is tomorrow morning,” he said finally. “You do realize if anyone sees you here, you’re ruined? Completely. No amount of your father’s influence could save you.”
“Then I suppose you’d better make your decision quickly.” She took a defiant bite of her sandwich. A piece of ham fell onto her chains with a soft plop. “Oh, heavens.”
Edmund looked at her—properly looked at her.
The moonlight revealed tired shadows under those cognac eyes, and her dress, while well made, showed the careful mending of a family economizing.
Her gloves were darned at the fingertips.
This wasn’t some lark or romantic adventure. She was genuinely desperate.
“Where the devil did you even get chains and handcuffs?”
“Our stable master’s son is sweet on my lady’s maid. He didn’t ask questions.” She paused. “Well, he asked several questions, but Mary told him it was for a… theatrical. We’re both going to hell for lying.”
“Among other sins,” Edmund muttered. He glanced toward the garden where shadows moved among the topiary. “Your father will send a search party eventually.”
“He won’t. He thinks I’ve gone to visit my aunt in Richmond with Mary.”
“And where is Mary?”