The Heart of War

Chapter 1

“The art of war is… a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin.”

—Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Every unmarried daughter in the ton knew that obtaining an ideal match was a contest of wit, skill, and strategy, and I was determined to emerge the victor.

The difficulty, however, lay not in winning a gentleman’s heart—those were surprisingly easy to come by—but in persuading my father to finance the wardrobe such a victory required.

Fortunately for me, I never shied away from a challenge.

I drew a bolstering breath, my hand poised to knock on the door to Father’s study for the third time this week. Today, rejection wasn’t an option.

My second season in London was mere weeks away, and I still lacked a new wardrobe. Strange, as Father had always ensured I wore the finest clothes. Anything less than perfection would mar our family’s name. “Not even a wrinkle,” he’d say every time I left the house.

Perfection had been the standard ever since Mother died. As the sole child of the Weston bloodline, I had to be twice as fashionable as anyone else and three times as charming. The viscount’s only progeny couldn’t be seen as anything but the best. So why was he withholding funds now?

I knocked three times.

“Not now,” Father grumbled from within. “I’m busy.”

He’d been busy for weeks, so I opened the door uninvited, saving him the effort of turning me away yet again.

The velvet curtains of his study were drawn, and only a few tendrils of light pierced the heavy tobacco smoke.

Father hunched over his desk, scribbling in his ledger, an untouched cup of tea beside him.

“Good afternoon, Father.” I donned a pleasant smile and curtsied. In war, one needed strategy. In society, one needed charm. In my father’s study, one needed both.

“What is it?” He didn’t bother looking up from his work as I sat across from him and removed my silk gloves.

I began my rehearsed speech. “Last year’s season was a great success because you gave me a generous wardrobe. But, my second season is nearly upon us, and—”

Father slammed his quill onto the desk, making me flinch. “You’re asking for money. Again?”

“I’m only asking for new dresses. All the other ladies have bought—”

“I refuse to indulge your frivolous desire for the latest fashions.” He met my eyes with a glare. “Do not ask for money again.”

My fingers tightened around my gloves, but I kept my expression neutral. Father had no patience for beggars; all he cared about was reputation. So I aimed an arrow where his armor was weakest.

“If I’m seen in the same clothes as last year, the ton might assume the estate is struggling. People will talk.”

Father stared at me. For the first time in weeks, I noticed his sunken eyes and pallid skin.

“The estate isn’t struggling, is it?” I asked quietly.

A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the grandfather clock, which chimed five excruciating times. I was about to repeat my question when Father shut the ledger with a loud crack.

“We are ruined,” he growled. “They have tricked us, Helena. Stolen from us!”

I swallowed the thick lump growing in my throat. “They?”

“Investors. Partners. Thieves. They conspired against me and took all of it.”

My pulse was a wild drumbeat in my ears. “When did this happen?”

He waved the question away. “It doesn’t matter when it happened. It only matters that it did.”

“But—how?”

“It’s business, Helena. You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand.” I pushed myself to the edge of my chair, straining to keep my voice even. “Are you saying there are no funds? At all?”

“Don’t insult me. Of course there are funds!” His fist came down on his desk, and tea splashed onto a pile of letters. Likely debt collectors seeking their dues, I realized with growing horror. “Even so, we must be prudent about expenditures until the situation is resolved.”

“And how much longer will these funds last if the situation goes unresolved?”

“Until the end of May. If we’re careful.”

I clenched my gloves so tight my knuckles hurt. Two months—only half of the season in London—was all that separated me from losing our home, my marriage prospects, the only life I knew.

I sat back in the armchair, no longer able to hold myself up. How had this happened? My knowledge of business was not as robust as I’d like, but it seemed unlikely a vast fortune could vanish simply because of a few poor investments, even if the men in question had conspired against my father.

But Father was right; it didn’t matter how it happened. The money would be gone before June, and my future along with it.

“What will we do?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Father drew in a long pull on his pipe, then sighed. The smoke curled around me, and I winced as the acrid stench stung my nose.

“You’ll have to marry,” he said.

“Marry?” I stifled my cough. “Who?”

“Whoever will take you off my hands.”

“But my dowry—”

“Is gone.”

I went completely still. Father watched me through the smoke, his eyes narrowed.

But I knew better than to challenge him.

Instead, I smoothed the creases in my silk gloves that I’d been wringing.

I had turned down eight proposals last season—eight—convinced that a better match awaited.

And now, I’d be left with nothing, forced to marry whichever unscrupulous man was willing to settle for a mere pittance of a dowry.

I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled a passage from the only text that had offered true guidance for courtship and society: The Art of War.

In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.

Sun Tzu was right. This was a crisis, but surely I could turn it into an advantage. If I received eight proposals last season, who was to say I couldn’t achieve even greater feats this year?

“Perhaps things are not as dire as they appear,” I said, sitting a bit taller. “What if I were to secure a proposal from a gentleman so wealthy he’d forgo a dowry? Perhaps he’d even give you a loan as part of the marriage contract.”

Father snorted. “Don’t be naive, Helena. No man would pay for a wife, much less her father’s debts. Even you aren’t enough of a prize.”

My smile flickered at his stinging words. But I was used to such sharpness.

“I have trained my entire life for a challenge like this, Father. You paid for years of lessons to make me the most sought-after lady in London. Allow me to put those skills to the test and attract the crème de la crème instead of settling for the first feeble gentleman who chances upon our doorstep.”

Father looked unconvinced, so I did the only sensible thing and laid my hand over his, letting a finger brush up against his wedding band. “If your marriage had been arranged, then you wouldn’t have married Mother.”

Father gave me the same accusing stare he always did whenever I mentioned Mother. They had married for love, but the end of their story was an unhappy one. Still, he’d loved her in a way he loved nothing else—myself included. He hadn’t been the same since her death.

Father stood, ripping his hand out from under mine. He paced the room before pausing in front of his ledger.

“Fine,” he said. “You have until the Walfords’ masquerade ball on the 18th of May to receive a proposal. That will give me time to arrange a marriage for you should you fail. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you do.”

I nodded. However, my victory was tainted by one unpleasant truth: I didn’t know what would happen if I failed. What became of a viscount’s daughter once the family’s title and land were stripped bare?

“How much will I be given for a new wardrobe to ensure my success?”

Father bristled. “I can spare fifty pounds.”

“Fifty?” That wouldn’t even be enough to purchase the fabric, let alone cover the labor cost. I had ten times that amount at my disposal last season.

“Fifty. And not a shilling more.” He arched his brow. “Unless you wish to sell the pianoforte.”

“No!” I cried. I’d rather wear rags than sell Mother’s beloved instrument. “I’ll make do with fifty.”

“Good.” He walked to the door. “Tell the cook I’ll miss dinner. I’m needed at the club and will be home late. Oh, and Helena—” he looked back at me, “—if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, then not even marriage will save you. I will not allow the Weston family name to be marred.”

“May I tell Mrs. Sweete?”

“No.”

“But she won’t tell—”

“If anyone finds out, then no man will take you. Do you understand?”

A chill coursed through me, prickling my skin. “I understand, Father.”

He grunted in approval, then walked out the door without even a farewell.

I stared at Father’s ledger, my hands trembling in my lap. We’d lost a viscount’s fortune seemingly overnight, and our salvation rested solely upon my ability to capture a man’s heart so completely that he’d forgo my dowry and shoulder our debts—all in just over two months.

What had I gotten myself into?

“Enough of that,” I told myself, forcing my breathing to slow. A panicked soldier never fared well on the battlefield. I needed to calm my nerves if I was going to claim victory. I needed a plan.

I needed Mrs. Sweete.

Not that I could share any details of our financial state with her, of course, but my chaperone had a talent for gathering essential intelligence. If anyone understood the terrain of London’s marriage market, it was Mrs. Sweete.

I hurried down the stairs and pushed open the front door, stepping out into the shaded square.

Orderly rows of chestnut trees lined the street like sentinels, watching over carriages that rattled through the streets of Mayfair.

Crisp afternoon sun kissed the pale facades of each townhouse.

Below, gentlemen with walking sticks and ladies with parasols strolled in the balmy spring air, blissfully unaware of the misfortune that had befallen No. 8 Grosvenor Square.

I leaned against the wrought-iron fence at the edge of our property to catch my breath and form my plan.

Mrs. Sweete was visiting her sister on the other side of London.

Normally, I’d send the carriage for her, but Father was taking it to the club.

It was the only place he went outside his office, as of late.

Hiring a hackney coach to fetch my chaperone was my best option. But that cost money, something I hadn’t needed to think about until now.

I hesitated, debating whether I could spare the coins, now that we were practically destitute. I decided that the current situation qualified as an emergency, and Mrs. Sweete’s aid was essential. I fished out three shillings and a tuppence from my reticule.

Besides, I’d be marrying into a fortune soon, and I’d never have to worry about money again.

I hurried to the edge of the street, hoping to wave down a coach, when a familiar prickle lifted the hairs on my neck.

I was being watched.

I glanced around, then caught the eye of a gentleman standing directly across the street from me. As soon as our gazes met, he went completely still.

The man was young, with a sweep of blond hair that fell carelessly over his strong brow.

His jaw was sharp enough to cut, softened only by full lips parted in surprise.

He wore a well-tailored coat fitted in a way that left little doubt about his broad shoulders and lean frame.

My chest fluttered at the sight of him. He was precisely how I’d always imagined Paris of Troy—blond, tall, and handsome enough to steal a queen.

He was truly unforgettable. Odd, considering I made it my business to remember every young man in the ton. Especially the handsome ones.

As any proper lady would, I curtsied and gave him a demure smile. But as soon as I lifted my head, he did something no man had ever done to me before.

He recoiled.

My mouth fell open as he shoved a piece of paper in his coat pocket and sprinted in the other direction.

I stood there, dumbfounded, as he disappeared around the corner of the square. Any man of decent upbringing would have bowed, or at the very least nodded. But this man quite literally ran away.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Oy, watch out!” someone shouted.

I turned in the direction of the voice—only to be met with a face full of cold, dirty water.

I froze, not just from the frigid mud seeping through my skirts, but from the realization that I’d been sprayed head to toe with murky, brown filth in front of a dozen people passing by.

A pair of women pointed at me, their whispers and smothered laughs making my cheeks burn.

I hoisted up my drenched skirts and strode back into the house, deciding that I wouldn’t send for Mrs. Sweete until the morning. Three shillings may have been an acceptable price to pay, but my dignity certainly wasn’t.