The Last Lady B

Prologue

London

(I’m taking the liberty of beginning with a conversation that happened seven months ago, so consider yourself warned.)

Lord Burnsby? A nasty old goat with three dead wives? He’s older than I am. For God’s sake, Genevieve, three dead wives.” My father’s cheeks had turned the color of a raspberry.

I sighed.

True, Burnsby was no one’s dream husband. He was close to seventy, with the weak jaw displayed by many of my countrymen. Yet since I couldn’t imagine feeling passionate about any man, his advanced age and chinless state were irrelevant.

Belying my aristocratic upbringing, I am both cynical and blunt. My sister, Rosie, to the contrary, has her heart set on a blue-eyed husband who will fall deeply in love after their first waltz. Rich and titled goes without saying.

Yet neither of us has a dowry.

Having waltzed (and flirted) with many a blue-eyed bachelor who subsequently married for money, I couldn’t bear the idea of my dreamy sister debuting in gowns that weren’t elegant enough, in gloves that had been mended, in slippers worn thin.

Without a dowry and—ipso facto—without suitors. Real ones, anyway.

“Being dead, Burnsby’s wives are irrelevant,” I informed my father. I paused and then told him the truth. “His lordship has promised to dower Rosie.”

My father’s groan evoked an unhappy Hamlet. “How shall I survive the disgrace of another man dowering my daughter!”

“No one has to know the source,” I offered. “The dowry will allow her to marry the man of her choice.”

“Our bloodline and her beauty should be enough!”

After a moment, my silence reminded my father (Sir William Sutton) that bloodlines and beauty had failed me, since three years on the marriage mart had resulted in Burnsby’s proposal.

“You’re selling yourself,” Father moaned, as if the trade in women wasn’t a fact of life. Aristocratic life, anyway. “Giving up on love!”

“I prefer to think of it as bartering.” I left the question of love to the side. My years in polite society had disappointed but not surprised me, whereas Rosie would be crushed when no adoring husband materialized.

“You shouldn’t have to worry about Rosie,” Father said, humiliation writ large on his face. He wasn’t a gambler or a drunkard, by the way. He simply didn’t have any money.

For the last few days, I’d lain awake in my bed, agonizing—until I snapped and sent a message to Burnsby.

He may be old, but he seemed gentle and supportive.

Plus, he didn’t require me to entertain him.

With no more encouragement than a nod and a smile, he would happily monologue on the state of the world.

I was sick of charming younger men in the hope they would look past my shabby gloves and sweep me away to a new life. Burnsby had promised not just Rosie’s dowry, but an entirely new wardrobe fit for his wife.

(Did I negotiate these unromantic details? Yes, I did. Observation has taught me that men require advance warning of their responsibilities, preferably in writing.)

“You’re making a mistake, Genevieve,” my father warned, wagging his finger. “Burnsby is too old to father children.”

“Luckily, he is content with the heir he already has.” My father frowned, so I went for the killing stroke. “Frankly, imagining a wedding night makes me want to vomit.”

(Remember I said I was blunt? I am blunt.)

My father’s mouth fell open. “No lady enjoys bedding her husband. Damme, I shouldn’t have to explain that. Don’t think about it!”

“Lord Burnsby has purchased a special license,” I informed my father. “We plan to marry this morning, after which we’ll travel to his Scottish estate.” Then I added, “Before leaving the city, we will stop by his solicitor to finalize my sister’s dowry, my jointure, and my pin money.”

My father was wringing his hands, a curiously vulnerable gesture. Being English nobility, we weren’t given to displays of affection, but I came closer and kissed his cheek. “It’s not your fault.”

“Your mother would be so unhappy,” he said, sighing like a teapot on the boil.

“She would be pleased for Rosie,” I pointed out. “Next year, when we return to London for the Season, I shall introduce Rosie to society from Burnsby House.”

“Don’t marry him, Genevieve! Any man might lose a wife or even two—just look at your mother, dying in childbirth—but three? That’s not chance or carelessness. It’s unnatural.”

I patted him on the shoulder, which didn’t help.

“People say all three of his wives were murdered,” he bleated.

“I’ve given that gossip serious consideration.”

“And?”

“Burnsby would consider homicide unbefitting his rank and presume the world would rearrange itself to his wishes. If he wanted to rid himself of a spouse, he would expect a slippery staircase to do the job for him.”

My father gulped down the rest of his whiskey.

(Well, now you’re all caught up. That’s how I dowered my sister, married a baron, and moved to Scotland.)