Chapter 1 Midnight Catastrophe #2
“Visiting her sister in Cheapside with a sovereign in her pocket and strict instructions to return for me at dawn.”
“Dawn?” Edmund’s eyebrows rose. “You really did plan to stay all night.”
“I told you, I’m desperate.” Her voice cracked slightly.
“You don’t understand what it’s like, watching everything you love teeter on the edge of destruction while you’re supposed to sit quietly and embroider cushions, which I’m quite terrible at.
My last attempt was supposed to be roses, but Papa said it looked like diseased cabbages. ”
Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his resolve weakening, which was ridiculous. He didn’t even like the chit. She was troublesome, naive, reckless, and had absolutely no regard for proper behavior. She also had the rather annoying quality of making him want to laugh.
“Tell me,” he said, settling himself on the balcony railing; at a safe distance from her chains, “what makes you think your father’s financial troubles are my responsibility?”
She looked at him as though he’d asked why water was wet. “Because you have the power to help, and you’re choosing not to. That makes you responsible.”
“That’s a remarkably simplistic logic.”
“It’s human logic.” She met his gaze steadily. “The kind that says when you see someone drowning, you throw them a rope even if you don’t particularly like them.”
“Even if they’ve spent generations trying to push your family under?”
“Especially then,” she said softly. “Because that’s what makes you better than them.”
Edmund stared at her, again, which he seemed to be doing with some regularity.
This slip of a girl in pink muslin who’d literally chained herself to his life—should anyone get a glimpse of the tableau and expose them—was speaking truths he didn’t particularly want to hear.
Somewhere in the garden, a nightingale began to sing, and the spring breeze carried the scent of his prize-winning roses mixed with her wildflowers and the rather odd smell of ham sandwich.
“You’re going to be the death of my political career,” he said finally.
Her eyes widened hopefully. “Does that mean…?”
“It means, Lady Prudence,”—how ironic, he thought—“that we need to get you unchained and home before someone discovers that the Duke of St. Albans has begun to re-enact Gothic novels. Where are those blasted keys?”
She bit her lip. “About that…”
“Oh, for the love of—you don’t have them, do you?”
“I threw them into the garden,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to lose my nerve and unlock myself too early.”
Edmund looked over the railing at his extensive garden, barely visible in the darkness. “You threw the keys. Into my three-acre garden. At night.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s unlikely they went very far.” She displayed her handcuffs with small jabbing movements of her arms. “I dropped them over the balcony. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Everything seems like a good idea to you at the time, doesn’t it? Breaking into houses, chaining yourself to strangers’ balustrade, throwing away keys…”
“You’re not exactly a stranger. We’ve been introduced. Twice. You looked right through me both times, incidentally.”
“I look through all unmarried ladies. It’s safer that way.” He stood, brushing off his trousers. “Right. Wait here.”
“I’m chained to your balcony. Where exactly would I go?”
“Good point.” He paused at the French doors. “Don’t… rattle around too much. The last thing we need is to wake the servants.”
“Your concern for my reputation is touching, considering you suggested the conservatory cushions not ten minutes ago.”
“That was before I knew you were Dover’s daughter. Now you’re not a potential conquest. You’re a catastrophe with a sandwich.”
As he disappeared into his room to find something to pick the lock, Edmund heard the soft clink of chains shifting behind him. He could hear her humming—humming!—something that sounded suspiciously like a tavern song.
He returned with his late father’s lockpicking set—a gentleman needed hobbies—and a thick wool blanket from his bed. The spring evening was turning cool, and the last thing he needed was Dover’s daughter catching her death on his balcony. The scandal would be unbearable.
“Here.” He dropped the blanket around her shoulders, trying not to notice how the moonlight made her skin look like porcelain or the elegant lines of her neck. “Can’t have you freezing to death. The documentation would be tedious.”
“How thoughtful.” She pulled the blanket closer with what limited movements she possessed. Just as he knelt beside her, he caught her little sigh of relief. “It smells like you.”
Edmund paused, her words doing something strange to his body. “I beg your pardon?”
“Bay rum and something else. Sandalwood?” Her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean… That is, I wasn’t—”
“Sniffing me?”
“The blanket! I was observing the blanket!”
“Hmm.” He turned his attention to the lock, pulling out various picks. “For someone concerned about her virtue, you’re rather free with your observations about a gentleman’s cologne.”
“For someone who claims to look through unmarried ladies, you’re rather free with your gaze.”
He had to give her that one. Edmund had been staring at her ample decolletage. He couldn’t help himself. It was right there!
He bent closer to examine the lock mechanism, which brought him near to her chained hand and her… bosom. Her fingers, he noticed, had ink stains on them. “You write?”
“I read. Extensively. I can open Papa’s library if I jiggle the handle just right.”
“Breaking and entering is a hobby of yours then.” He inserted a pick into the lock, feeling for the tumblers. “I suppose you’ve read Adam Smith? All the fashionable economic theories?”
She snorted. “Fashion has nothing to do with it. I’ve read Smith, yes. And Ricardo, though his theories conveniently ignore what happens to entire villages when foreign grain destroys British farming.”
Edmund’s hand slipped, nearly dropping the pick. “You’ve read Ricardo’s Principles?”
“Why does everyone assume ladies’ minds have shriveled up? Yes, I’ve read Ricardo. His comparative advantage is all very well in theory but tell that to the thousand families who’ll starve when Polish wheat sells for half the price of British grain.”
“The poor will benefit from cheaper bread—”
“The poor won’t have wages to buy any bread when our estates fail.
” She shifted, the chains rattling, and he caught another whiff of wildflower.
“Do you know how many people depend on Dover estates alone? Not just tenant farmers: blacksmiths, wheelwrights, millers, innkeepers. When estates collapse, entire communities die.”
Edmund fumbled with the lock, distracted by her proximity and her unexpected grasp of economic consequences. “Your father doesn’t usually make such coherent arguments.”
“My father thinks shouting about tradition should be sufficient.” Her voice carried a mix of affection and frustration.
“But you need more than tradition, don’t you?
You need logic. So, here’s logic: Britain imports grain, becomes dependent on foreign powers, and what happens when there’s another war?
We can’t eat cotton from Manchester mills. ”
“We’re not going to war.”
“We’re always going to war. France, Russia, somewhere.
” She leaned forward slightly, and the blanket slipped off one shoulder, drawing his eyes to the lines of her shoulders.
“Your own father nearly bankrupted himself buying grain during the Napoleonic blockades. Imagine if we depended entirely on imports.”
Edmund sat back on his heels, genuinely surprised. “You’re advocating for agricultural protection based on military strategy?”
“I’m advocating for survival.” She looked at him fiercely. “You’ve invested in railways, Your Grace. Very forward thinking. But what will your trains carry when there’s nothing left to transport from the countryside? Manufacturing needs agriculture. Cities need farms. It’s all connected.”
“Your father would be shocked to hear you making sense.”
“My father still believes women’s minds are too delicate for mathematics, yet I’m the one who’s been managing the household accounts for three years.
” She smiled ruefully. “I know exactly how close we are to ruin. Three bad harvests and estates without protection will crumble. Then where will your precious free trade be?”
Edmund stared at her. Again. “You’ve actually thought this through.”
“Desperation tends to focus the mind wonderfully.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Your grandfather understood. He fought for the Corn Laws in 1815.”
“My grandfather also thought Catholics should be barred from Parliament.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Especially your father, what with the Poulett affair.”
“Allegedly.” The lock wasn’t budging. Edmund tried a different angle which required him to lean across her lap. The chains pressed against her dress, outlining her figure in a way that was thoroughly distracting.
She didn’t seem to notice. “It was proven enough for Lord Poulett to challenge him.”
“Poulett was a terrible drunk.” He could feel her breathing, the slight rise and fall moving the chains. “Though I admit, it’s like Father to seduce a man’s wife at their anniversary celebration.”
“Like father like son. ‘The conservatory has excellent cushions?’” She mimicked his earlier drawl perfectly.
“That was—” He jerked back as the pick snapped in the lock. “Damnation!”
“Language, Your Grace.”
“You’re chained to my balcony at midnight, and you’re concerned about my language?”
“Standards must be maintained, even in bizarre circumstances.” She watched him extract the broken pick. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“Lock picking isn’t typically part of a duke’s education.”
“Neither is agricultural economics, apparently, or you’d understand that Peel’s repeal is driven by Manchester manufacturers who want cheap labor, not humanitarian concern for the poor. Why? Because if the cost-of-living decreases, employers can justify lower wages.”
Edmund threw down the remaining picks in frustration. “Fine. Whatever their motivations, cheap grain will still mean affordable bread for the working poor. How does protecting inefficient farming help them?”
“It’s not about efficiency; it’s about stability.” She leaned forward earnestly, and the blanket pooled around her waist. “Yes, some estates are badly managed. But destroying the entire system overnight? That’s not reform; it’s revolution. And we both know what happened in France.”
“You’re comparing grain tariffs to the Terror?”
“I’m comparing sudden economic collapse to social chaos.” She gestured with her chained hands, nearly hitting him in the chest. “Oh, sorry. These things are dreadfully awkward.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Edmund said dryly. He stood, brushing off his knees. “The pin isn’t working. I’ll have to find the keys.”
“They’re just down there.” She pointed to the balcony floor. “They should be near the potted roses.”
Edmund looked where she pointed, seeing nothing but shadows. “Of course they are.” He stood and swung one leg over the balcony railing, preparing to climb down.
“Wait!” She grabbed the hem of his trousers, tugging at it. “You’ll break your neck climbing about in the dark!”
“Concerned for my welfare? How touching.”
“Concerned for mine. If you die, I’ll be found chained to a dead duke’s balcony. The scandal would be unprecedented.”
“Always thinking of yourself.” But he smiled as he said it.
“Someone has to since I’m apparently too naive and foolish to merit anyone else’s consideration.”
Edmund looked down at her, at the way the moonlight caught in her eyes and how her fingers had tightened on his trousers. “You’re not naive.”
“Ten minutes ago, you said—”
“I was wrong.” The admission came out without thinking. “You’re insufferably argumentative and too bold for your own good, but you’re not naive. You understand exactly what you’re risking and why.”
She blinked up at him, lips slightly parted. “I… thank you?”
“Don’t thank me. I’m still voting for repeal.”
“No, you’re not.” She said it with such certainty that he almost believed her. “You’re going to vote against repeal because despite everything, you know I’m right about stability.”
“Can we not discuss this while I have one leg over the balcony?” he said as he looked down at her fingers clutching his trousers.
“Reduce the tariffs slowly, over years. Give estates time to adapt, to modernize. Some will fail, yes. But not all at once. Not catastrophically.”
Edmund swung his leg back onto solid ground and squatted down beside her, dimly thrilled by the way her breath caught at his proximity. “You’re asking me to save your father who’s spent his entire life tormenting my family?”
“I’m asking you to be better than our fathers.” Her voice had gone soft, almost whispered. “To end the feud by doing what’s right, not what’s vengeful.”
Edmund felt something stir low in his belly. He forced himself to rise to his feet and step away. “I need to find those keys before someone discovers us, and we’re forced into a marriage.”
“You could do worse. You might improve with proper management,” she said with a sly smile.
“And you might benefit from a finishing school.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She pulled the blanket back around her shoulders, settling against the railing.
Edmund swung his leg over the railing once more, finding footholds in the sturdy ivy as he’d done numerous times in his youth. He dropped the last few feet into a flower bed. He ran his hands along the ground, searching for any glint of metal. Nothing. He tried near the potted flowers. Nothing.
He moved systematically through the area beneath the balcony, but the keys seemed to have vanished entirely. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, his trousers were ruined, his hands were filthy, and his temper was fraying.
He looked up at the reckless chit, still chained to his balcony. Inexplicably, he didn’t hate the sight. If anything… “I’m going to try the terrace. Maybe they bounced.”
“Keys don’t bounce that far.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“No.”
He strode toward the terrace, irritation mounting. “This is what comes of dramatic gestures, Lady Prudence. Next time, perhaps consider a strongly worded letter.”
“I tried that. Six times. You never responded.”