Chapter 1 #2
Her retort came sharp and swift. “Then I would pick up your hat, stomp on it, and toss it far, far away.”
He chuckled. “How I enjoy our little chats.” With a bow, he added, “Have a pleasant evening, Diamond.”
“That is not my name,” Charlotte shot back, her voice rising despite herself. But he was already retreating into the crowd, the smirk lingering, as though her indignation had been precisely what he wanted.
Drat. He never seemed to care—and worse, she suspected he knew exactly how to unsettle her.
Charlotte turned her gaze on her brother, irritation simmering beneath her practiced poise. “Why do you insist on being friends with Lord Luca?” she asked, her tone hovering between a question and a demand.
Alistair only smiled, his arm sliding protectively around Jane’s waist. “Because he was part of the reason we were able to arrest Jules Leclerc, ending the threat on our lives. I owe him a measure of respect for that.”
Charlotte sniffed. “He vexes me.”
“All the more reason to like him,” Alistair teased.
Before she could retort, movement in the corners of her eyes caught her attention. Mr. Trotter strode towards her with his usual overeager smile. “I have come to claim you for our dance,” he said, offering his hand.
At once, her mask slipped back into place. “I was hoping you would,” she replied with deliberate sweetness.
His face lit up, his chest puffing like a pigeon in the park. It was too easy, she thought. How easily men were undone by the smallest compliment.
As Mr. Trotter led her towards the dance floor, Charlotte’s gaze wandered over the room, the part of her that was Mr. Fairchild already cataloguing details for next week’s column.
Lady Weatherby stood near the refreshment table, her diamonds winking under the chandeliers as she spoke far too closely to Lord Henshaw.
How curious—wasn’t it common knowledge her husband had been banished to the country for gambling debts?
Charlotte would need to note how intently Lord Henshaw leaned towards her, how his hand brushed hers as he offered her a tart.
Such gestures often bloomed into scandal.
And there, against the far wall, Lord Greaves—red-faced and sweaty—slipped a flask from his jacket when he thought no one was looking. Oh, but Charlotte had seen. She always saw.
Her lips curved as Mr. Trotter guided her into the first steps of the dance, mistaking her smile as encouragement meant solely for him.
He would have no idea that behind the coquettish tilt of her chin, her mind was already arranging tonight’s observations into tidy paragraphs, each barbed with just enough wit to delight her readers.
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the entry hall, spilling golden light across the marble floor as Luca made his way towards the dining room.
He straightened his cravat with a practiced tug, already thinking ahead to the stack of work waiting at his office at The London Gazette.
Leads to chase, articles to edit, endless words to marshal into meaning.
It was an unpredictable life, but he relished the chaos.
It kept him sharper than the monotony of titled ease ever could.
He entered the dining room to find his elder brother, Jude, already settled at the table. The Earl of Pendryn looked the picture of idle contentment, coffee steaming at his elbow and the morning newssheets spread wide in front of him.
“Good morning, Brother,” Jude greeted without looking up. “Since you are here, I should inform you that your newssheets are rather dull today.”
“Thank you for that,” Luca muttered, sliding into a chair. “Any other pearls of wisdom you wish to impart before breakfast?”
Jude finally lowered the newssheets, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cantankerous so early? Is this because you persist in defying convention by actually working for your income?”
“I take no shame in working.” Luca reached for the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup.
“Nor should you,” Jude replied. “You’ve done well. When you bought your little newssheets, they were on the verge of collapse, but now they are highly respected.”
That compliment set Luca on edge. Jude rarely offered them without purpose. He arched a brow. “Why the sudden generosity of spirit? Are you bottle-weary this morning?”
Jude chuckled. “I merely spoke the truth. I am proud of you. Although”—he tilted his head, voice turning sly—“you might consider improving your Society page. It is dreadfully tame. No gossip, no scandals, nothing to keep a reader’s interest.”
Luca hid a grimace behind his coffee cup. “I am well aware. Which is why I am trying to steal Mr. Fairchild from The Morning Post.”
Jude’s brows lifted in interest. “That would be quite the coup. The man seems to know everything about everyone. A ghost who nonetheless haunts every ballroom in London.”
“Precisely. Yet he is elusive—no one knows who he truly is. A phantom with a quill,” Luca said. And it irritated him more than he cared to admit that such a shadowy figure had cornered the gossip market.
“You will find him,” Jude replied with confidence.
Luca leaned back. “I’ve already hired a Bow Street Runner to assist. It is only a matter of time before I track him down and make him an offer he cannot refuse.”
“Well, when that day comes, I shall once again read your articles,” Jude said lightly, folding his newssheets. He pulled out another set and smoothed the pages. “Until then, I am resigned to The Morning Post.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed. “You dare bring that drivel into this house?”
“How else am I to know which debutante is destined to wed which aging viscount?” Jude quipped with a careless brush of his hand.
Before Luca could deliver a cutting retort, their father strode into the room. The Duke of Ashmoore still carried himself with the same commanding presence he always had, though his once-black hair was streaked liberally with white and new lines marked his face.
“Jude, leave your brother alone,” the duke ordered.
Jude raised his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. I cease… though only under protest. How else will I know where to find a bride?”
“I could select one for you,” their father replied dryly. “It would not be difficult. As my heir, ladies are queuing up for the honor.”
“And those are precisely the ones I do not want,” Jude muttered.
“You are thirty years old and fiddling about. It is past time you married,” the duke said firmly.
Jude put on a look of mock astonishment. “Is that what I have been doing these past years? Fiddling?”
Luca smothered a grin. Their father was not amused.
“You ignore every debutante paraded before you,” the duke pressed.
“Because they are children,” Jude countered. “I would sooner take a governess to wife than a simpering miss.” Then, with unholy glee, he remarked, “Besides, I am not the only one unwed. What about Luca?”
“Traitor,” Luca muttered under his breath.
Jude only smirked. “I cannot have all the fun with Father.”
The duke’s stern gaze swung to Luca. “I have already made my feelings known about Luca’s… project.”
“It is not a project,” Luca said calmly. “I bought The London Gazette because I wished to make a difference.”
“By scribbling articles?”
Luca reached for his glass of juice, wishing it were brandy instead. “Must we have this conversation now? I haven’t even had breakfast.”
Their father surprised him by sitting across from him. “Forgive me. I’ve been awake since four this morning. My thoughts… they will not quiet.”
Luca’s irritation eased. “Have you spoken with a physician?”
The duke frowned, looking older than his years. “There is no point. I have not slept soundly since your mother died. Every night I wake and reach for her, and every night she is not there.”
The rawness in his voice twisted something deep inside Luca’s chest. “Have you considered remarrying?” he asked cautiously.
That earned a derisive snort. “Absolutely not. I am far too old. Besides, I loved your mother too well to settle for some ambitious lady who cares for nothing but my title.”
“You are not old,” Jude attempted.
“I am nearly sixty.” The duke reached for his fork as a footman set a plate before him. His words were simple, but the weight of them lingered.
Luca glanced down at his own untouched plate, appetite gone.
His father’s grief was a shadow in the room, and Luca understood it too well.
Their home had once been filled with laughter, with warmth, with love.
He wanted that same kind of marriage for himself—not one of convenience or title, but something real. Something worth waiting for.
The pleasant clink of silver against porcelain was suddenly pierced by the sharp rustle of newssheets. A slow grin tugged at Jude’s mouth as he lifted the newssheets higher with deliberate flourish. “You were mentioned in Mr. Fairchild’s article.”
Luca arched a brow. “Is that so?”