Chapter 1
The steel was cold as ice against my throat, and yet I wasn’t afraid.
“Put the knife away, Papa,” I said calmly.
“One little slip and you might accidentally prick your finger.” I could always govern my father better than anybody because I could bear his oddities and understood how to use humor to coax him back to reason when plain sense and argument would have failed.
The flame from his desk lamp shivered, casting a flicker of light over his face. I saw the spasm of conflicting emotions—razor-sharp logic warring with his increasing eccentric ideas about power and privilege, and how our family should live within the rarified world of the British aristocracy.
“I am like King Lear! My daughters have abandoned me!” His voice was plaintive, as if he couldn’t comprehend how such a thing had come to pass. “And all the noble principles upon which I raised them.”
I felt more sorrow than anger. The truth, noble or otherwise, was that his unorthodox method of raising us had been a cause of consternation among all our relatives.
Papa was an ardent admirer of the eminent Enlightenment philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that mankind was born innocent and it was Society’s rules and hierarchies that corrupted our natural state.
Thus, while he taught us the rudiments of reading, mathematics, and a smattering of French, we were forbidden to have any intercourse with books, even the Bible, until he deemed that we had learned our primary life lessons from Nature.
My younger half brothers—my own mother, a very charming and well-educated lady, a member of the illustrious Pitt family, had died when I was three and Papa quickly remarried—had found themselves apprenticed to the local blacksmith in order to learn the moral rewards of manual labor, despite being the sons of an earl.
“Clearly I haven’t abandoned you, Papa,” I replied. “Here I am, and the basic laws of physics say that I can’t be in two places at once.”
My quip make him smile.
The night breeze rattled the windowpanes.
Moonlight fluttered over the library’s bookshelves, illuminating shelf after shelf of Papa’s leatherbound books.
His scientific instruments and journals cluttered the worktables, his cabinet of curiosities rose up from the gloom, its wondrous collection of strange and exotic things coming to life for just an instant as a quicksilver gleam danced over the glass.
Genius and madness, blurred in the shadows.
My father’s intellect was unquestioned. His interest in electricity led him to form a fast friendship with the American luminary, Benjamin Franklin, as the two of them become the leading experimenters in the field.
His other scientific inventions drew accolades, including an innovative printing press and the Stanhope lens, which allowed microscopes to create a greater magnification.
It was his emotional stability that descended into the netherworld of darkness.
“Ah, Hester . . .”
Feeling his muscles relax, I dared to slowly ease away his arm, which was pressed against my chest, pinning me to the wall. I didn’t really think he was planning to slice through my windpipe, but the blade was making me uncomfortable.
“Clever, clever, Hester.” He patted my cheek. “I have missed our little games of logic.”
At a young age, I sensed that my father thought me the cleverest of all his six children. On the whole, he paid little attention to any of us. However, he seemed to enjoy devising philosophical puzzles for me to reason out.
“Think, think, Hester,” I recall him saying when I was twelve years old. “You are the best logician I’ve ever seen. Why, when you put your mind to it, you can talk through a problem and bring Truth to the point of a needle.”
Staring at the knife in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time, he blew out a sigh and set it aside. “Come, let us sit by the fire and talk about philosophy. I have a theoretical question that will test whether your reasoning is as sharp as ever.”
Oh, yes, I am sharp, I thought. Sharp enough to see that his increasing eccentricities, both personal and political, were fast alienating him from all his family and friends.
Including me.
The French Revolution and its ideals had been the catalyst for my father’s transformation from august aristocrat to radical republican.
“Citizen Stanhope” was now the laughingstock of London, fodder for the pens of London’s satirical artists, who dissected his foibles with surgical skill.
His scathing criticism of his own country alienated his close friend, my uncle William Pitt the Younger—who was serving as the prime minister of Britain—and turned him into a lifelong enemy.
As for his family, there was a terrible irony to his ideas.
His reverence for liberty, equality, and fraternity was in confounding contradiction to his despotic rule over our household.
My stepmother soon wearied of his quirks and turned distant.
She spent less and less time at Chevening, our ancestral estate, leaving all of us children to fend for ourselves.
Decisions, decisions.
It was at that precise moment, with the chill of the blade still lingering on my throat, that I finally resolved to make an emotional and physical escape from the tyranny of his misguided genius.
Though in truth, I suppose the rumblings of my discontent had been growing ever louder over the past year.
An opportunity to spend time in London with my relatives had allowed me tantalizing glimpses of the world beyond the confining gates of Chevening.
And the experience of the last twelve months had kindled a spark in my Pitt blood and given me a yearning for adventures.
Spring 1799
“Lady Hester, do come here and allow me to introduce you to Lord Robert Ashton and his cousin, the Honorable Frederick Thornwood,” called Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.
The magnificent drawing room of Devonshire House, a grand residence known for its opulent glitter and scintillating parties, was ablaze with light from a trio of ornate chandeliers, their candle flames reflecting off the intricate cut-crystal baubles and casting flickers of fire over the crème de la crème of London Society.
I dutifully crossed the carpet, taking pleasure in the sensuous swoosh of fine-spun silk frothing around my ankles.
Fearing the corrupting influences of aristocratic entertainments, my father had forbidden me and my sisters to dress in pretty clothes once we were old enough to mingle in Society.
Sack-like gowns made of drab muslin—another of his peculiar rules—were meant to trumpet a disgust of the rich and their frivolous indulgences, as well as discourage a gentleman’s attention on the rare occasions when we were permitted to accept invitations.
No wonder my youngest sister had eloped at age sixteen with the local apothecary three years ago.
As I approached the duchess, I saw a momentary spark in the eyes of the two gentlemen. Curiosity, perhaps? Wondering, no doubt, whether the eldest daughter of the eccentric Earl Stanhope also had an odd kick to her gait.
My chin came up a fraction as Georgiana began the formal ritual of introducing members of the ton to one another.
She had been quick to befriend me when, pressured by the Pitt side of the family, my father had reluctantly allowed me and my sister Griselda to visit London and begin circulating in Society.
I wasn’t quite sure why, given that my uncle—known as William Pitt the Younger to distinguish him from his father, the legendary politician William Pitt the Elder—was currently prime minister of Great Britain and Georgiana was an ardent supporter of Charles James Fox, Pitt’s greatest political rival.
Maybe she had heard that I was headstrong and opinionated, and was hoping that I would embarrass Pitt by making a cake of myself.
“Lady Hester, how delightful to make your acquaintance.” Lord Ashton performed an exaggerated bow over my hand. “You look the very picture of feminine beauty in that particular shade of blue.”
What a tarradiddle! I was too tall and too thin for such an inane compliment.
“Do you consider yourself an expert on female beauty, milord?” I shot back, challenging his platitude. I had always been forthright, and was determined not to be intimidated by London Society.
He hesitated, looking confused on how to respond. However, he was saved by his friend, who smoothly replied, “One need not be an expert to recognize beauty when one sees it.”
Mr. Thornwood appeared to possess a modicum of wit and cleverness.
Ignoring Lord Ashton, I turned my attention to him.
“Are you equally good in recognizing the fine points of horseflesh, sir?” I was a neck-and-leather rider and, as most gentlemen of the ton paid attention to horse racing, I was eager to discuss the upcoming races at Royal Ascot.
A cough. “I consider myself to have some skill in all things equestrian, milady.”
His understated response further piqued my interest.
“Excellent.” I waved for one of the passing footmen to bring me a glass of champagne, a gesture that drew disapproving titters from the Duchesse de Gontaut and her trio of sycophants. I had heard through friends that the haughty French emigree thought I was not comme il faut.
Tant pis.
I responded with a challenging stare before looking back to Thornwood with a smile. “I should very much like to hear your opinion on which horses you think are the favorites for winning the Queen Anne’s Plate.”
“Come, Lord Ashton.” As Georgianna hooked the baron’s arm, I thought I detected a smirk. “I see Marquess of Downdell’s daughter has arrived. She’s a charming and polished young lady. I’m sure you will find her to be amiable company.”