Chapter 1
Chapter
One
“He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 19, 1821, ONE DAY EARLIER
“Lily!”
Her heart sank like a stone into a pond.
Lily Abbott positioned her silver fork on her plate and, pinning a broad smile to her lips, turned to face her mother.
She did not miss her brother pressing his twitching lips together, his chocolate-brown eyes dancing with amusement as he lifted his cup of coffee for a sip.
It was Lily’s third Season, a fact that was causing increasing panic in Mama, whose energies were consumed by the imperative of securing her daughter a respectable match.
Lily had hoped that Aidan’s recent return from his Grand Tour would divide Lady Moreland’s formidable attention. However, it seemed her brother’s bachelorhood was far less concerning than her own unmarried state.
“Mama …” She injected her voice with cheerful enthusiasm, a performance honed through many such encounters.
Lily had always been exuberant, but she had honed that quality into a strategic art form, a kind of armor.
She had discovered that if she chattered long enough, Mama would become distracted and lose her train of thought, allowing Lily to steer the conversation toward safer ground.
“You look lovely! Your gown is immaculate, and the beadwork so intricate. You shall quite eclipse the King’s coronation robes in such a glorious ensemble! ”
Behind her, Aidan emitted a discreet snort of laughter as Lady Moreland paused to preen, smoothing her hands over her lavish skirts while casting a proud glance down at her coronation finery.
Lily’s compliment was not without merit.
Her mother was striking, her sleek brown hair made luminous by the pearl-studded gold and red velvet coronet that denoted her rank as viscountess.
But the distraction was fleeting. Lady Moreland’s sharp gaze returned to her daughter.
“What happened with Lord Ashby?”
“We danced together. It was a waltz, and the music was sublime. I do believe the musicians were quite masterful, and I could have danced until sunrise.” Aidan snorted again behind her, clearly stifling laughter as Lily launched into her verbal gambit.
Her brother had always seen through her tactics.
“Lily!” her mother interjected, her tone clipped.
Lily clamped her mouth shut and offered an innocent smile. “Yes, Mama?”
Lady Moreland did not appear in the mood to be sidetracked. The grandeur of the coronation had evidently stirred every thought of marriage into a fresh frenzy, and Lily feared this particular interrogation would not be easily evaded.
She cast a subtle glance over her shoulder, a silent appeal to Aidan, who watched the scene with undisguised amusement as he sipped his coffee.
“Lord Ashby was quite taken with you, but after your dance, his mother told me he had abruptly lost interest. What in the world did you say to him?”
Lily lifted a hand to rub the edge of her earlobe, the movement unconscious as she sifted through her memory. Her talent for cheerful misdirection seemed less reliable after a night spent attending a ball until dawn.
“I simply admired the musicians’ skill and praised the servants’ livery. I may have commented on how splendid the ballroom looked, dressed as it was with hothouse flowers and—”
Her mother groaned aloud. “Did you chatter the entire dance?”
“I suppose I might have,” Lily admitted, not quite contrite.
“Oh, Lily! How will you ever make a match if you will not stop blabbering like a fool?”
“Mother,” Aidan interrupted with the cool assurance of a man who knew he could take liberties without consequence, “I think we must accept that Lord Ashby and Lily are, regrettably, ill-suited.”
Lily’s heart leapt with relief when Aidan interrupted.
Ever since her cousin Sophia had left their household to marry the Earl of Saunton the year before, Lily had contended with her mother’s matchmaking unaided.
Now that her brother had returned from his Grand Tour, perhaps she would not have to face Lady Moreland’s impatience alone.
If they could scheme together, she might yet make a match rooted in love and mutual admiration, like Sophia’s, a union of laughter in drawing rooms and quiet understanding at breakfast, not one forged in social obligation and her mother’s expectations.
Not that Papa would ever compel her to marry against her inclination, but Mama’s relentless ambitions wound through their days like the tightening of a corset at dawn. Subtle, pressing, inexorable.
Lady Moreland frowned, perplexed by her son’s bold assertion. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Lord Ashby, if I am not mistaken, is an utter bore who only speaks of horseflesh and hounds. Not to mention he is thirty years her senior and has several children from his previous marriages. Lily and he have no commonalities between them and would have nothing to discuss at the breakfast table.”
“Matches have proved successful over less. And Lily’s babbling must be reined in.”
“I find Lily’s conversation delightful and her optimism infectious. She amuses me during even the most melancholy of days. If Lord Ashby cannot appreciate her for the jewel she is and would discard her after a single waltz, then he does not deserve her.”
Their mother sighed and leaned back. She appeared unwilling to spar further with her eldest. “You could introduce more of your friends to her, Aidan.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
Lily had been glancing between them, her head moving slightly as the tension in the air softened.
She cast a quick, grateful wink toward Aidan, who returned her look with a small smile, just as his expression changed.
His eyes shifted to something beyond her shoulder and widened in astonishment. His jaw fell open.
Startled, Lily twisted to look behind her, one gloved hand flying to her mouth to catch a laugh.
Lady Moreland gave way to laughter—high, musical, and uncontrolled—as her husband entered the morning room. It was a rare sight to see the usually reserved viscountess doubled over, laughter spilling from her as she clutched her waist.
Lord Moreland stood before them, a handsome man in his fifties with silver threading through his brown hair and a build that still commanded a room. But not even his stature could preserve his dignity in the garments required of him.
Thanks to King George IV’s whimsical tastes and formal declarations for the coronation, the College of Arms had imposed a sartorial horror upon the peers of the realm. Lord Moreland had been forced into antique dress that had not graced a living man’s body since the last century.
He wore a tight-fitting doublet of ivory silk, the buttons glinting like coins in the gaslight.
His gold-and-white breeches ballooned absurdly at the thigh, ending high above white silk stockings that clung to his muscular legs like clotted cream.
The heeled shoes clicked faintly on the tiled floor.
A long cloak of crimson velvet, lined in pristine ermine, swept behind him like a banner, and at his throat, an elaborate ruff framed his face in theatrical absurdity.
“Faugh! I have never been so happy that I am a mere heir and not the holder of the title!” Aidan cried.
Lily’s laughter burst free, her chest shaking with mirth as her father turned a rich, mottled red and cast a rueful look at his audience.
“The other options were worse, in my estimation. My tailor insisted this would suit me best.”
“That is hard to believe,” Lily wheezed, struggling for air.
Lord Moreland’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps he advised me for his own amusement.”
At last, Lady Moreland composed herself enough to speak again, smoothing her gown of sapphire silk with both hands as if to re-anchor her dignity. “Aidan, we shall be out late. You must remain home and keep Lily company.”
Aidan nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “I promise to keep an eye on my little sister and ensure no harm befalls her, Mother.”
Lily’s heart warmed. Since his return, Aidan had been constantly in demand by friends and acquaintances, flitting from ball to club as easily as she moved between fittings and musicales.
She missed him. She longed to hear the stories he had promised—the rise of the sun over Roman rooftops, the glow of candlelight in Venetian palazzos, and the scent of lavender fields in Provence.
But he had been swept up in London society since the moment he had set foot back on English soil.
Their childhood closeness, once unmarred by propriety or separate spheres, had faded like an old watercolor. Now, every shared moment was a small treasure.
“I expect you to keep that promise, young man!” their mother said, her voice sharp with playfulness, her eyes soft.
The entire Abbott household had rejoiced at Aidan’s return. For Lily, tonight offered a rare reprieve from social maneuvering, from the artifice of presentation. An evening with her brother, laughing by the pianoforte or reminiscing over slices of currant cake, was a balm to her heart.
Brendan drew a deep breath, the heaviness of it sitting beneath his ribs, then reached out and opened the door to his rooms. He could put it off no longer.
Lord Filminster had arrived two days earlier—his first visit to London in as much as two decades—and demanded Brendan’s presence downstairs today.
The baron had sent word of his imminent arrival, but Brendan had been certain he would cancel the trip.
He had wagered on the man’s cowardice, and so the fact of his arrival, despite the warning, still had the power to surprise him.