Chapter 1
TWELVE YEARS LATER
Ambrose Aster was morose.
He hadn’t meant to save that man’s life. He hadn’t even meant to be at that particular house for that specific party this Christmas.
It was only that there had been nothing else to do. So he had gone, and now here he was in this terribly inconvenient situation, facing down a knighthood he didn’t want.
His mother was going to be so horrifically proud.
Everything was awful.
He winced against the rays of sunlight that were currently assaulting his eyelids. Some idiot had forgotten to close the curtains last night, apparently.
So, while Ambrose would have been perfectly happy, blessed, even, to have slept for another day or three, it seemed the very universe itself was determined to disturb him. Wasn’t that always the way?
He sighed, slapping a hand up over his eyes to rub the grog from them before he attempted to look the world in its face again.
It was only then that he remembered he was not at home in his own bed.
“Oh,” he said, his voice cracked and dry as he opened his eyes and the darkened corners of the gambling den he’d slept in last night started to come into focus. “That’s right.”
He almost chuckled. Almost. Laughter was a bit much to ask from him today, after all. It wasn’t that he was suffering from bottle ache or anything half so pedestrian.
No, of course not.
Ambrose hadn’t allowed himself the escape of liquor the previous night. Not after that damned monogrammed announcement had shown up at his door, alerting him to his impending appointment with a sword at his neck.
No.
He had met the evening without the aid of dulled senses, because perhaps he deserved his pain. Perhaps he even enjoyed it, a little.
It was something different from the drudgery of constant success, anyhow.
He sighed again. Loudly.
The Flaming Fox was shadowed and shuttered at this early hour, lit only by those shafts of sunlight coming in from the blue tinted windows that lined the wall on either side of the front door.
Ambrose made a face.
There weren’t even any curtains to close, were there? Very inconsiderate.
He wondered how long he might remain here in restful repose today before he was bothered by the people who owned this establishment. This chaise was new and far more comfortable than it had any right to be.
He ought to be able to hide here for another couple of hours at least.
And then, as though to mock him for his hubris, a key rattled in the lock of the front door.
Ambrose immediately closed his eyes and sagged again, feigning sleep. If someone had come to boot him, he wasn’t going to make it easy.
“Ah,” came a deep, masculine voice. “You’re still here. Good.”
If he hadn’t said good, Ambrose would have continued his playacting with impermeable perfection. But it was unexpected, and so he opened one of his eyes.
“Mr. Beck,” he said, his voice still raspy and pathetic.
Thaddeus Beck loomed in the sunlight, his huge frame blocking out most of the offending light as he frowned down at the interloper on his chaise. For such a big man, Ambrose thought he was rather more reasonable than he needed to be.
After all, if he were built like that, he’d simply slap people around until they did what he wanted.
“Sit up,” Beck suggested, turning to shrug his jacket off and walk behind the bar. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“Kind of you,” Ambrose answered, suddenly wary. “Where’s your wife? Or your … other wife?”
Beck paused, his hand halfway to lifting a glass, and looked sternly at Ambrose from across the room. “What?”
“I … don’t know which one you married,” he admitted with a shrug, then winced. “One of them, surely? One of them is your wife, right? Not the Irish one?”
Beck stared at him for such a long, quiet moment, blinking only once.
Ambrose wondered if he was about to get slapped after all.
“Hannah is my wife,” Beck finally said, creaking back into motion and setting the glass on top of the bar. “Ember—the Irish one—is my business partner. She is married to a barrister. You, I believe, are not married to anyone?”
“Well,” Ambrose said with a frown, shifting around in his seat. “Not yet. What are you saying, Beck? That I’m a spinster? Past my prime?”
Mr. Beck did not answer and instead made a noise in his throat as he turned for the carafe of water.
“I was asking,” he said as he poured, “if you were unwed. It seems you are. That is what I came here to speak to you about.”
Ambrose blinked, stunned for a moment by the pivot the conversation had taken. It was a little thump to the chest, something to stir up the deadened nerves that usually just huddled there in gray repose.
He didn’t mind it.
“You want me to marry someone?” he asked, reaching out an arm in an indication that Beck should pick up that glass of water he had just poured and walk it around the bar and over to the chaise like a good gentleman.
Beck narrowed his eyes.
Some of the water spilled when he snatched it up, but it seemed the gent did understand a bit of nonverbal communiqué.
“I wasn’t planning on marrying this week,” Ambrose said thoughtfully, taking the glass with a nod of thanks. He sipped some of the water, smacking his lips in approval at finally having some lubrication on his dry vocal cords. “Who’s on offer?”
Beck stood over him, and instead of bristling at the question, he did something far more unsettling. He chuckled.
This startled Ambrose enough that he scooted back on the chaise to get a better look at the man. He took a bigger gulp of the water. He wondered if he ought to have asked for coffee instead.
“My wife wanted to propose this to you, you know,” said Beck, flipping a chair from the faro table around and sitting on it.
“She still might, if you decline my attempt. The thing is, Aster, I find something about you just familiar enough that I felt obligated to be the one to explain to you what you’d be getting into, because I’m entirely certain you are going to agree to it. ”
Ambrose scoffed. “You think this is my first marriage proposal, Beck? I’ll have you know that the ladies are rabid with enthusiasm to marry any Aster. Add my cheekbones into the mix and they go quite feral.”
“This prospective bride is not feral,” Mr. Beck said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “I cannot even promise you enthusiasm, to be completely frank.”
“Oh?” Ambrose lifted a brow, leaning forward, some of his white-blond hair falling into his eyes. “Then what does she want with me?”
Beck gave him half a smile, almost a pitying little thing. “Hannah said that last night you lamented that only children get governesses, and that you wished you had someone to tell you what to wear and where to stand and what time to eat and so on. Is that true?”
Ambrose frowned. “Of course it’s true. Doesn’t everyone?”
Beck blinked again rather than answering.
After a moment, he took a breath and continued.
“My sister has trained her entire life to be a governess, as it happens. She was one for the last year and served in some capacity as one for many years prior to that during her schooling. She also enjoys a tidy schedule. So, if it is a woman to manage you that you wish for, I believe she could accommodate that desire without issue.”
“You want me to hire your sister to be my governess?” Ambrose asked, grinning.
“I want you to marry my sister,” Beck said again, grinning right back so readily that Ambrose’s own smile immediately evaporated.
Ambrose looked down at what was left of his water and tipped it into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow. “Why?”
“Because she refuses to go back to work as a governess and instead wishes to find a rich, impressive husband to facilitate her aspirations for the life she wants,” Beck replied, so candidly that Ambrose was certain at least half a dozen Society matrons spontaneously fainted dead away on the streets of Mayfair.
“She wants fine gowns, invitations to fashionable events, and a husband impressive enough that anyone who ever looked down on her will choke on their mistakes.”
“She sounds terrifying,” Ambrose said politely.
“She is,” Beck answered. “Thank you.”
“I suppose it would be something to do,” Ambrose said, though he was not certain.
“It would be something to do other than coming here, gambling a bunch of money you are just going to give back at the end of every night, and occasionally getting punched for the effort, you mean?” Beck asked, raising his dark brows.
“I only got punched the once,” Ambrose said immediately, crossing his arms. “You and your freckled thug are always interrupting otherwise.”
Beck sighed. “Aster, it would be something to do. Something better than whatever the hell it is you’re doing here night after night.
My sister would also take the burden of your impending knighthood ceremony off of your shoulders entirely.
All you would have to do is show up and let her steer you around. ”
Ambrose tilted his head.
“My mother could do that, if I asked,” he pointed out. “But it would be unbearable. My manservant will do it otherwise, I think.”
“And how will that be?” Mr. Beck asked, though he did not sound truly curious.
“German,” Ambrose answered with a flip of his hand. “Efficient. Dry and boring. But somehow never as quick as you hoped. Excellent desserts, though.”
“Fascinating,” said Beck.
Ambrose nodded, sighing and leaning back against the chaise. “Is she pretty? Your sister? Or does she look like you?”
Beck chuckled again.
Ambrose was finding he didn’t enjoy that chuckle at all.
“Come and find out over dinner,” he said. “You ought to meet her, at least, before you formally agree to anything. She has to agree as well, after all.”
“The devil do you mean, she has to agree?” Ambrose demanded, watching the other man stand and stretch, spinning that chair back around like it was no heavier than a twig in his oversized hand. “Are you setting me up to be rejected by your giant sister, Beck? Don’t you ignore me!”
Beck paused, a look of sudden curiosity on his face. “Stand up,” he said. “Just for a moment.”
“Why?” Ambrose asked, though he was already obeying. “Are you going to hit me?”
Beck walked up to him, almost toe to toe, and peered down at where the top of Ambrose’s head reached about the level of Beck’s shoulders. He took a step back and considered him again, and gave a brisk nod.
“Just checking,” he said absently, then turned to retrieve his coat. “Dinner is at seven. The Tod and Vixen, here in St. James. Do not be late.”
“Checking what?” Ambrose demanded, looking around for his shoes. “What are you … Beck!”
To his credit, Thaddeus Beck did wait at the door until Ambrose was shod again and skittering toward the exit, harried and still confused, but he didn’t answer until the door was shut behind them and they were set to go in opposing directions at the forking end of the drive.
“She is tall for a woman,” he said with a shrug. “But you are a bit taller. I was just curious.”
“Well, that’s very considerate!” Ambrose said, disoriented and a little affronted. “Are you going to tell me her name?”
“No,” said Beck. “Good day, Aster. I’ll see you at dinner.”
And then he was gone.