Chapter 1
“Wherein the past is reviewed with regret, but a new friend is made.”
Beau watched as his boyhood friend, Sebastian Grenville, the Duke of Sindalton, ran down the stairs from his grand home on Grosvenor Square.
The tall, imposing figure leapt into the waiting carriage and the glossy black conveyance, drawn by four equally glossy bay horses, drew him away.
The gold leaf of the duke’s coat of arms glinted with the perfection of true quality in the early summer sun on the carriage doors, and Beau tried hard not to feel envious of his friend’s secure position: a wealthy man, setting out to marry an equally wealthy and beautiful lady who loved him to distraction.
Such lives as most people could only dream about.
Struck by a forceful pang of sorrow as the carriage turned the corner and out of sight, he drew in a breath and told himself not to be so hen-hearted.
He had no right to feel sorry for himself.
He had his own notoriety as Charles Stafford, the Marquess of Beaumont, though all knew him as simply Beau.
But he had brought this sorrow upon himself. That much was clear.
Beau shifted his arm in the sling as his shoulder throbbed as though reminding him of his own black-hearted folly.
Raising his hand, he rubbed at it with a grimace.
It was healing well now, but it still hurt like the devil.
Still, that’s what you got when your best friend put a bullet in you.
He could only be grateful Sebastian had never been such a good shot as he was himself.
For both their sakes. He doubted Sebastian would take the idea of fleeing to France in disgrace with any more enthusiasm than he had himself.
But there was no other choice for him now.
He turned and nodded to the two burly and disreputable-looking men who were lingering on the corner of the road.
They were temporary guards’ courtesy of the Earl of Falmouth, who was just as eager for him to leave the country, for Beau owed some very ruthless men a great deal of money, and they’d take their payment in blood and bone if nothing else was forthcoming.
Lost in his malady, he found himself walking towards Hyde Park, the streets still quiet and deserted at this unfashionably early hour of the morning.
He should go home. There were still so many things to arrange before he caught the packet boat in the morning.
The idea of going back made his throat disconcertingly tight though. Best put it off for a while.
He wandered through the pretty gardens at a leisurely pace.
The grass and trees still wore the fresh acid green of a damp spring, with vivid swathes of colourful planting drawing the eye as the new summer colours vied for attention.
For once Beau found no pleasure in it though, his thoughts too mired in his past and the gloom of his immediate future. What the devil was he to do?
He sat down on a bench, casting a sympathetic eye to the two men who were still shadowing him. He waved them off with an impatient air and they obliged with begrudging distrust.
Beau wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the water of the Serpentine and considering all the ill-conceived, idiotic things he’d done in the past year alone.
It wasn’t a pleasant thing, to realise that you were wasting your life, that you’d done nothing you could feel pride in.
He had spent his time indulging his baser instincts and not giving a damn who he hurt in the process.
He was tired of emotional scenes, of women he didn’t care about weeping and begging him to stay.
Tired of gambling at all hours to try to keep himself afloat.
Rubbing his hand over his face in irritation he cursed himself.
He was better than this, surely? But his father’s laughter still rang in his ears.
It had almost killed him to turn to his father for help. He’d been far from surprised that the evil old bastard had delighted in telling him he was a failure and a disgrace, and he’d not lift a finger to help him. No change there then. So, he’d swallowed his pride for no good reason.
Beau swore he’d show him, one day. One day he’d make a success of his life and he’d look his father in the eyes and tell him he was wrong. Beau wasn’t the failure, he was. The Duke of Ware was the failure, for he’d set out to break his own son and he’d not yet succeeded.
He frowned, broken from his thoughts by a soft voice and looked around him. At first, he saw no one, but then the voice came again and he turned to his right a little farther to see a woman looking at him.
“Hello,” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I-I’m so sorry, my lord. I-I h-hope I’m not disturbing you?”
He smiled politely at the woman, wondering what the devil she was about speaking to a man she didn’t know in the middle of the park. But then he realised there was something familiar about her.
She was not a glamorous specimen. Indeed, Beau would have walked past without giving her a second glance, so how he knew her he couldn’t fathom.
Shabbily dressed in a worn brown pelisse, her equally brown hair was drawn severely back from her face into a tight bun.
Thin to the point of looking emaciated, Beau thought a strong gust of wind would likely knock her off her feet.
She flushed, the two points of colour vivid against the pallor of her complexion.
“No, you’re not disturbing me,” he said, looking at her with curiosity. If she’d been better dressed and rather more attractive, he’d have not been so surprised. He was not unaccustomed to women acting badly to get close to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss ...”
“Oh, Miss Sparrow,” she said in a rush, taking a hesitant couple of steps closer. “No, nothing at all, my lord, in fact I would never have dared approach you, only ...”
She ground to a halt and Beau was struck by the fear in her dark eyes. It was a look he recognised.
“Only?” he asked, keeping his voice warm and reassuring.
She wore the look of a woman who was afraid of her own shadow and he felt the instinctive need to put her at ease.
She wore a dainty pair of spectacles that made her look rather older than she perhaps was and pushed them up her nose a little before she spoke again.
“Only, I wanted so much to thank you.”
He raised his eyebrows, wondering what on earth he could have done to have earned her thanks. “Sparrow?” he repeated, frowning as he realised the name was familiar. “Oh, Lady Derby’s ball?”
She smiled and let out a breath. “Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid I caused the most dreadful stir.” The high points of colour on her cheeks seemed to brighten further and he felt a wave of pity for her embarrassment.
“Not at all,” he said, smiling at her. “And there is not the least need to thank me. It was no more than anyone would have done.”
Her smile fell away, and a haunted look returned to those wide brown eyes.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “We both know that isn’t true.
They would have stood and watched as I had a .
.. a fit. They would have watched and felt appalled and done nothing.
No one else would have helped me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But you did.”
It appeared to be Beau’s turn to feel embarrassed. He was certainly undeserving of the look of slavish devotion in her eyes. “Well, I was only too happy to,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
“I know,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “And I simply can’t imagine why.”
He frowned, turning to her with a little annoyance.
“It shouldn’t be so remarkable that I can find some common decency for a fellow creature.
Surely my reputation is not so black as all that.
” The words were sharp, and she gave an audible gasp of shock and he was appalled to see that look of terror in her eyes again as she clutched at the little plain brown reticule in her hands.
“N-no! I-I didn’t mean. I n-never meant that you ... Only p-people aren’t kind you see. N-not usually.”
He felt a wave of pity for this poor, shabby, brown creature and wondered what her life was. He knew of her cousin, Spencer Brownlow. He’d been at Eton, a year or two older than Beau, and a nastier piece of work it would be hard to come across.
“Forgive me, Miss Sparrow,” he said, truly disquieted by how frightened she seemed to be. “I had no call to speak to you so. Indeed, it is only my own guilty conscience that made me think you were accusing me of being usually cold-hearted.”
“Oh, I would never believe such a thing of you!” she said, and with such heat that Beau was startled into laughter.
“My word, a champion,” he said. “Well I must say I have need of one of those right now as I’m feeling devilish sorry for myself.”
“Oh?”
He looked up, amused by the curiosity in her eyes.
Looking around, he wondered if she was in the park alone as the impropriety of her situation was very clear to him.
She should not be speaking with him without a chaperone.
She ought not to speak to him at all as they’d never been formally introduced, despite the bizarre nature of their acquaintance.
Though how anyone could believe she was in danger of him making amorous advances to her was frankly ludicrous.
“Are you alone, Miss Sparrow?”
The two high spots of colour flamed once more, and she shook her head.
“My companion, Mrs Goodly, is with me, and indeed we have come with my cousin Mr Brownlow’s son Hugo and his nanny.
They are further along the park, but Mrs Goodly is sitting on that bench there.
” She gestured to another identical bench a little distance from them and Beau saw an older lady sitting and reading a book.
“Well then, as we have propriety in hand, would you do me the honour of sitting with me a moment?” he asked and was rewarded with a look of real pleasure.