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  Copyright © 2017 by Jane LeCompte

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  A Peek at The Loveless Lord

  One

  Two

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Lord Randolph Gresham attracted more than one admiring glance as he walked along Grosvenor Square toward Bond Street on a Tuesday morning. And indeed he felt unusually dapper. His dark-blue coat had arrived from the tailor only yesterday. His dove-gray pantaloons outlined a muscular leg. His hat sat at a jaunty angle. He’d often been told that he was the best looking of the six sons of the Duke of Langford—tall, handsome, broad-shouldered men with auburn hair and blue eyes—and today he thought he almost deserved the accolade.

  He breathed in the early April air, invigorating with a tang of spring, and listened to the birds calling in the trees. For the next four months, in the interval between parishes, he was not a vicar or a model for proper behavior. He had no special position to uphold and no clerical duties. He was free to enjoy the London season, and he fully intended to do so.

  A familiar shape caught his eye in passing. He turned, then went quite still. His feet had taken him automatically into Carlos Place. How odd. His body had somehow remembered what his brain had passed over. He would not have come here consciously, although in an earlier season, six years ago, he’d walked this route nearly every day.

  Randolph went a bit further and stopped again to gaze up at a narrow brick house. Behind those tall, narrow windows he’d wooed Rosalie Delacourt, asked for her hand, and been delightfully accepted.

  A vision of her laughing face assailed him. She’d so often been laughing, her lips curved in the most enticing way. Her hazel eyes had sparkled like sunshine on water. She’d been elfin slender, with chestnut-brown hair and a few hated freckles on her nose. She was always trying to eradicate those freckles with one nostrum or another.

  From the moment they met, introduced by a friend of his mother’s at a concert, he’d thought of no one but Rosalie. The fact that she was eminently suitable—by birth and upbringing and fortune—was pleasant, but irrelevant. He would have married her if she’d been a pauper. She said the same. It had all been decided between them in a matter of weeks. Life had seemed perfect to a young man freshly ordained, with a parish, and ready to set off on his chosen path.

  Gazing at the unresponsive house, Randolph felt a reminiscent brush of devastation. Why had he come here? His grief was muted by time. He didn’t think of Rosalie often now. The Delacourts no longer lived in town. Indeed, he’d heard that they rarely came to London. And who could blame them?

  Not for the first time, Randolph was glad that only his mother had known about his engagement to Rosalie. Randolph had enjoyed keeping his courtship private, away from the eyes of the haut ton. His brothers had been busy with their own affairs. And so, in the aftermath, he’d been able to stumble quietly off to Northumberland and what he’d sometimes thought of as exile, though of course it wasn’t. He’d found solace in his work and the good he could do, and gradually his pain had eased.

  Randolph took a moment to acknowledge the past with a bowed head and then walked on. He wouldn’t come this way again.

  A few minutes later, Randolph reached his original goal, another place he hadn’t been in years, Angelo’s Academy on Bond Street, next to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. Entering, he heard the familiar sound of ringing steel and murmured commentary. Pairs of men fenced with blunted foils, guided and corrected by the famed proprietor and his helpers. Others worked on their stance or observed. Randolph joined the latter until he was noticed and the owner of the place hurried over. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you, Lord Randolph,” said Henry Angelo, scion of the dynasty of fencing masters.

  “And I’ve probably forgotten most of what you taught me,” replied Randolph. “But I thought I’d try a match if it could be arranged.” The clash of blades filled him with pleasant nostalgia. He’d spent many a satisfying hour surrounded by that sound. Angelo’s was a fashionable gathering place where gentlemen socialized as well as learned the art of swordsmanship.

  “Of course. I’d like to see how one of my best pupils has kept up his skills.”

  “You mustn’t be too harsh,” replied Randolph with a smile. “I had no opportunities to fence in Northumberland.” He had practiced the moves now and then, but he’d found no partners in the North.

  A young man nearby stepped forward. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Henry’s smile went slightly stiff. “Unnecessary, Mr. Wrentham,” he said. “I’ll take on Lord Randolph myself.”

  “Oh, but I’d like to try my chances against one of your best pupils.”

  The newcomer spoke with a belligerent edge, as if Henry had angered him somehow. Randolph eyed him. A well-set-up fellow in his twenties with dark hair and eyes, he looked familiar. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “At Salbridge,” the younger man agreed. “Charles Wrentham.”

  “Of course. You acted in the play.”

  Wrentham grimaced as if he’d been criticized. “So, shall we have at it then?”

  Randolph understood from Henry’s stance and expression that he would prefer otherwise. But Wrentham’s face told him there was no way to refuse without giving offense. Randolph agreed with a bow.

  Donning fencing gear brought back more memories. Randolph relished the feel of the canvas vest and wire mask. He took down a foil and swished it through the air, feeling old reflexes surface. It was said that physical skills learned as a youth stayed with you, and he didn’t think he’d lost his touch. He tried a lunge and parry. Fencing had fascinated him from the moment he’d picked up a sword. The combination of concentration, pre
cision, endurance, and strength exactly suited his temperament, and he’d picked up the skill quickly. Faster than any of his brothers, which added to his enthusiasm, he acknowledged. Here was one area where he outshone them all. Well, except Sebastian, who had a cavalryman’s fine slashing style with a saber from horseback. That was quite a different thing, however. No one fought to the death at Angelo’s.

  Randolph moved to an open space on the floor. Wrentham faced him, raising his foil in a salute. Noting that Henry was hovering, and wondering why, Randolph matched Wrentham’s gesture and took his stance. Muscle and mind meshed in the old way. He smiled behind his mask.

  Randolph let Wrentham make the first move, to get a sense of his style and skill. The young man came in with a lunge. He overextended, and Randolph parried the thrust. Wrentham pulled back and slashed downward. Randolph blocked the blow. And so it went for some minutes, Wrentham attacking and Randolph easily fending him off. The younger man had some ability, Randolph noted, but he lacked control. And he didn’t seem to pay much heed to his opponent. Divining an adversary’s next move was half of winning.

  Satisfied, Randolph went on the offensive. He knocked Wrentham’s blade aside with a ringing clang and scored a hit on the younger man’s chest with a clever riposte. Wrentham sprang back, then surged forward again. Randolph feinted left. Wrentham reacted. Randolph struck through the resulting gap in the young man’s defenses, scoring another hit.

  Wrentham reacted with a flying lunge, a move usually reserved for saber matches, leaping and thrusting at the same time in an effort at surprise.

  Randolph dropped low, touching the floor with his free hand for balance. Straightening his sword arm, he stabbed upward and scored a third hit to Wrentham’s ribs before drawing back under his opponent’s blade.

  Something seemed to snap in Wrentham at this clever exhibition of superior skill. He went wild, beating the air with his foil like a windmill. Randolph met each slashing blow—above, left, right—with a clang of metal that he felt all the way down his arm. He could hear Henry commanding them to stop, but he couldn’t spare an instant’s attention. The blunted foil wouldn’t stab him, but a great whack to head or shoulder would nonetheless hurt. He’d seen men knocked silly by flailing like this. Nothing for it but to fight Wrentham off. Randolph blocked and parried over and over again, waiting for a chance to end it.

  At last, he found an opening and used a move Henry had taught him, twisting and flicking his sword to disarm Wrentham. The younger man’s foil went flying across the room. It hit, bounced, and skittered over the floorboards to a stop.

  With a curse, Wrentham jerked off his wire mask and hurled it against the wall. A flake of plaster came loose and dropped with it. He stalked out, chest pumping, teeth bared.

  Silence filled the academy. All the other fencers had stopped to watch this unusual bout. “Well done,” called several of them.

  Randolph removed his own mask. He was breathing fast but not panting, he was happy to see.

  Henry took his foil. “Very well done,” he said quietly. “You’re as skilled as ever, my lord.”

  “What the deuce is wrong with Wrentham?” Randolph asked.

  “He’s an overly dramatic young man with a tendency to lose his temper at the least obstacle,” said Henry. “I’ve been trying to teach him there’s more to fencing than the win.”

  “Can you teach that?”

  Henry shrugged. “Sometimes. Mr. Wrentham was doing much better before he went out of town in the autumn.”

  Randolph unbuckled the straps of his fencing vest and pulled it off. “I can see why you tried to discourage that bout.”

  Henry bowed. “Discernment was always one of your greatest strengths, my lord.”

  * * *

  The remark came back to Randolph later that day as he sat in his room at Langford House and contemplated a bleeding fingertip. Again. He was beginning to see why no one had played the lute for hundreds of years, and to doubt his supposed discernment. The archaic instrument was proving difficult to master despite his musical talent. Learning to play the pianoforte had not been nearly so slow.

  He set the lute aside, careful not to touch his clothing or the fabric covering the armchair, then blotted his finger on a bit of toweling he’d procured for the purpose. He didn’t want to bloody another handkerchief for the servants to launder. It wasn’t fair to them. And a bloody cloth roused unwarranted concern. His former housekeeper, back in Northumberland, had concocted a whole tragic tale, imagining that he was leaving his clerical post in the North to go off alone and die of consumption.

  He’d had to show her the lute and demonstrate its perils to keep her from rallying the entire village of Hexham to nurse him. He wouldn’t miss that lady’s constant presence in his new posting in Derbyshire. Though kindly intentioned for the most part, she’d made privacy nearly impossible in his parsonage.

  The bleeding stanched, Randolph put the lute in its case and set it in the bottom of the wardrobe that had held his possessions throughout his youth. He’d chosen to stay in Langford House for the season. Why take a couple of rooms when he could enjoy the luxury and convenience of his old home? He liked his parents, after all. He was looking forward to their company and their help.

  He might have stayed with his older brother Sebastian, who’d taken a house not far away. But Sebastian’s new wife was bringing out her next-younger sister this season, and her youngest sister, Hilda, was with them as well. Randolph wouldn’t have dared to practice his lute around her. Young Hilda would nag until she pried the whole odd story out of him, and then store the knowledge away for her own purposes. She was not above a spot of genial blackmail.

  Randolph would also have been welcomed by his younger brother Robert and his new wife in Russell Square. Their household held out the lure of intellectual stimulation. But Randolph admitted, silently, that he relished a more fashionable address. He wasn’t a snob. Far from it! But he was here for a particular purpose, and first impressions were important.

  He was in London, in fact, to acquire a wife. A churchman was expected to have a partner in his parish work, and it was past time for him to find one. He’d waited long enough for another love. He was reconciled to the idea that he’d had his chance with Rosalie and lost it. There would be no other grand passion for him.

  This was no huge hardship, Randolph told himself, not for the first time. Or the twentieth. He would find a young lady who shared his values, and they would come to an agreement. During a London season, he’d be surrounded by eligible girls eager to find husbands, a plethora of choices. What more could a man ask?

  He rose and went over to the cheval glass, meeting his own blue eyes in the mirror. He was said to be handsome. Noting others’ opinions wasn’t vanity. So that was an advantage. He was wellborn. He was making some progress in his profession at last. He had a moderate income, though it would be well to have a bit more. He wasn’t shy. He was quietly confident of his own strengths and talents.

  Randolph exchanged a wry glance with his reflection. On the negative side, he’d never quite gotten the hang of flirting. It seemed to be the art of talking about nothing, and he vastly preferred to talk about something. But then, he had a tendency to go on and on about a topic if not curbed. He could easily imagine some girls poking fun at him for that. And what about fun? Randolph had noticed that his finely honed sense of humor was too dry for some. They missed his point and stared as if he was mad. Of course he was looking for an intelligent wife, so perhaps that didn’t matter.

  He liked helping people. It was one of the delights of being a clergyman. He’d had the great pleasure of aiding Sebastian and Robert, just a bit, as they won their brides last year. At the same time, he’d learned that strangers didn’t always wish to be helped.

  Randolph took a last look in the mirror. Surely those character points added up to a good chance of success? He gave himself an encouragin
g nod. He’d test it out tonight. He’d been invited to an informal evening party, a mere nothing before the season truly began, the hostess had claimed. It sounded like an ideal opportunity to ease his way into the haut ton.

  * * *

  Verity Sinclair looked around the opulent drawing room, drinking in every detail of the decor and the fashionable crowd. She had to resist an urge to pinch herself to prove she was actually here and not dreaming. It had taken her five endless years to convince her parents that she should have a London season. They hadn’t been able to see the point of it, no matter what advantages she brought forward. Papa and Mama were quietly happy living in a cathedral close and being held up as models of decorum for the whole bishopric. Verity, on the other hand, often thought she’d go mad within those staid confines.

  She sighed. She loved her parents dearly, but for most of her life she’d felt like a grasshopper reared by ants. Indeed, at age eight, she’d shocked her parents by asking if she was adopted. She hadn’t meant to hurt their feelings or to imply any lack of affection. Their differences had just seemed so marked. Mama and Papa relished routine; Verity yearned for adventure. They read scholarly tomes; she pored over Robinson Crusoe and accounts of the voyages of Captain Cook. They preferred solitude or the company of a few friends; she liked a large, lively company. They took sedate strolls; she tried to teach herself knife throwing, which would come in handy if and when she required food in the wilderness.

  Her mother was watching her with an expression that gently suggested skepticism. Verity smiled at her and turned toward the chattering crowd. She was in the capital at last, in position to carry out her plan. Surely this room was full of men who were not clergymen and who were, or were acquainted with, far more intrepid types. Indeed, from some news she’d picked up recently, 1819 might be the perfect year for her purposes, even if she was twenty-four and seen by some as practically on the shelf.

  She would succeed, despite the misfortune of possessing hair the color of a beetroot and milky skin that freckled at the least touch of sun. Despite the fact that nature had chosen to endow her with a bosom that seemed to positively drag men’s eyes from her face and her arguments. Which was not her fault, as her father sometimes seemed to think. It was a reasonably pretty face, she thought. Her features were regular, and she’d been told her blue-green eyes were striking.