Chapter One

London, late February 1814

“T

hese are the best marital prospects you can discover? In all of London?”

The Lady Eleanor Constance Russell, sole offspring of The Right Honorable Earl of Rutledge and The Right Honorable Countess of Rutledge slapped the sheet of paper she’d been reading down on top of the mahogany desk and bestowed on her London barrister the look of a woman at her wit’s end. Grief for her dying parents and a sense of utter desperation had driven her to actions she considered borderline insanity. If she accepted any of the names on this list, she might as well rent rooms in Bedlam. Eleanor fought the hysteria surging in her breast and tried for a more cajoling tone. “Surely you can come up with more worthy candidates?”

The barrister who had served her family for the last forty years sat immobile in his great chair, hunkered down behind his great desk, his hands steepled in front of his narrow-lipped mouth. “This was no small task you set before me, Lady Russell. We are at war with France. Many of our most eligible men fill our army and navy.”

Her troubled gaze swung outward. Outside the windows of Elsington & Elsington, the London hansom cabs clopped past in the traffic-clogged street. Everyone had business to conduct it seemed. With a heavy sigh, she returned to the issue that had torn her away from the bedside of her failing but beloved parents and the celebrated stud farm into which she’d poured twenty-plus years of her life.

Her eyes flicked to the sheet in front of her, and she jabbed at it with an index finger.  “Sir Clive Wellery. Fifty-six years of age, just interred his fourth wife, has no property of worth, eleven dependents ranging in age from two months to twenty-two years, known for a propensity to overindulge in spirits and gambling, currently renting a six-bedroom house in Bloomsbury.” She shuddered and whispered, “Eleven children.”  Her eyes rose and gazed at the gentleman across the desk from her then dropped back to the paper.

“Lord Hilary Vance. Sixty-four years of age, of no property or spouse. No dependents, an unfortunate victim of the ‘China disease.’” She cleared her throat. “I understand there is no opium den he does not frequent.” 

The barrister sat motionless in his chair and gave her a disapproving frown. She rolled her eyes. “I am thirty-years-old, sir. I’m not an ignorant debutante.”

“I disapprove of your unorthodox education, Ma’am. It did you a great disservice, and so I told your father.”

You old fusspot. Eleanor swallowed her retort and returned her gaze to the page on the desk. “And then there is Sir Aubrey Dedham… really, Mr. Elsington? Really? The fellow lives at the molly houses.” She frowned as her barrister stirred awkwardly in his high-backed chair. “Did you think I didn’t know the meaning of the term? How am I supposed to persuade a sodomite into marriage with a woman when he is not inclined toward women in the first place?” She scowled. “Though perhaps my possessing no feminine attributes is a recommendation.”

“Lady Russell, please…”

Eleanor held up a gloved hand. “Stop. I know what you are going to say. £30,000 will make any man blind. And this last entry.” She sighed and relaxed her upright spine for one moment before resuming her erect posture and folding her hands in her lap. “This last marital candidate.” She could feel the heat climb her neck into her cheeks at the thought of a man that elegant ever giving her a second look and if he did… she’d probably turn and flee.

“The Lord Miles Everleigh, twenty-five, the third of four sons, whose eldest brother is the new Duke of Chelsony. I understand Lord Miles lives on the charity of “friends” in return for his convivial companionship and educated guidance on the purchase of fine bloodstock. What could induce…”

She closed her eyes and fought back the tears that threatened. How had she come to this? Was she going to go through with an action that in her more rational moments caused her to lose the contents of her stomach? In short, yes. The alternative was even more appalling.

One thought of the manor house with its 100,000 acres of attached properties and villages all peopled with men and women who relied on her family for their livelihood... the thought of all this reverting to the Crown because of some quirk in the laws of primogeniture? Accompanying the loss would be the upheaval and complete displacement of the lovely Thoroughbred mares and stallions of impeccable breeding whose pedigrees she could recite to the nth generation and all their offspring, in short, the entire racing stud she’d helped her father make so fabulously successful. Well, it was enough to make anyone cry.

Despite having three torturous seasons on the marriage mart ten years ago, no eligible man—there’d been numerous made ineligible by virtue of being unacceptable to her parents or unacceptable to her—had stepped forward with an offer to make her his wife. All the wealth and property she would bring with her was insufficient incentive to overcome her plain features, awkward deportment and utter lack of the slightest feminine attribute, so… she’d have to buy a husband—and soon. With no male heir, upon the death of her father, the estate, and all its entailed properties would be subject to the peregrinations of escheat.

“Mr. Elsington…please. What could possibly recommend me to Lord Miles Everleigh? Even rusticating as I have been, I hear the on-dits about the ever-so-handsome and sophisticated Lord Miles Everleigh. There will always be other options for a man like this, much better options than a gawky plank of an ape-leader with shriveled social skills who reeks of the stables and is his senior by five years.”

The man across from her cleared his throat. “My lady…if I may be allowed…” He looked over his pince-nez. “The marriage agreement that you have required me to draw up demands a gentleman of a certain …” He shifted uncomfortably. “Ah…”

“Let me assist you. The word you want is desperation. It wants a gentleman who has reached a point of desperation. Well, Mr. Elsington, find more candidates. This week. I’m running out of time.”

“Err, yes, Lady Russell. Quite.” His eyes softened. “How is your father, my lady?”

Eleanor dropped her eyes and fought for composure until she was sure she could speak without succumbing to tears. “The physicians tell me, ‘at most a few months’. He could go at any time.”

“My sincere regrets, ma’am. Lord Rutledge is a fine gentleman.”

With a murmur of thanks, she inhaled and rose to her full height. Mr. Elsington was not a short man, but as he stood to escort her out, she topped him by a full head, reminding her yet again of her abysmal lack of any physical feature possessed by an even a moderately desirable woman. She hardened her jaw as she marched out of the law offices to her waiting carriage. There was no point in dwelling on a source of immense hurt that her adoring parents and formidable fortune hadn’t protected her from, nor the reasons for her present desperate action. She decided on the instant to go to the one place in all of London where she’d always felt at home regardless of the strictures of polite society and Richard Tattersal’s distinct lack of welcome for those of her sex.

“Take me to Tattersalls, John. They have advertised some young breeding stock I want to inspect. We need some outside lines to cross on Dare To Dream.”

“Yes, your ladyship.” With a tip of his beaver brim, he helped her into the carriage and climbed onto the box. At John Coachman’s instruction, the groom stepped away from the leaders, sprang to the back of the carriage and the team of beautifully matched bays stepped smartly away.

The Lord Miles Wrotham Everleigh and his companion, The Right Honorable Reginald Eugene Beechworth, Baron of Stanton, “Reggie” or simply “Stanton” to his close friends, tipped their hats and bowed to two smiling matrons and their wide-eyed daughters who trailed their mamas like ducklings—if ducklings were prone to giggle. At mid-day, shoppers jammed the high street shops of London’s Burlington Arcade.

“That Lady Beatrice Alderdice is a lovely item and young enough to be entirely amenable to be shaped to the wishes of a husband.” Reggie grinned at Miles. “It’s said she’s to have £5,000 a year. That sum would keep you in a good supply of fine cattle.”

Miles summoned a smile and injected a carefree note in his voice that did not conform to his current inward disposition, but then a penniless gentleman reliant upon the good graces of his friends didn’t have the luxury of expressing his true feelings. He must be all things amiable at all times. “Ah, Stanton…you know as well as I, it’s not the young ladies I must navigate to acquire a wife…it’s their mamas and papas—and no parent worthy of the name would allow me to grace their doorstep—no matter my lineage. Besides, the young lady in question is only fifteen. She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

“But if they only knew you, Miles, surely…”

“Ha! That’s the thing, you see. They do know me. They know I have nothing to offer their daughters other than the clothes I stand up in.”

Both men paused in their stroll to tip their hats at another well-dressed woman of their acquaintance.

“Fiend take it!  Miles, you’re dashed handsome and well-spoken; you’re well-bred, connected to all the right people. Everyone likes you. You’re the best friend a man could ask for, and you’re—”

“Poor.” He laughed. “I haven’t a sixpence to scratch with, Stanton, and no expectations. There’s no getting over this heavy ground lightly. I’m the third son who lives on his wits and twenty-five pounds a month. No recommendation when setting up a household.” He glanced at his friend and chuckled. “Even if you think I’m a nonpareil.”

His friend sighed. “Well, you have a home with me for as long as you wish it. Mary adores you and…well…” Reggie cleared his throat awkwardly. “You know how I feel about you.”

“You’re very kind.” Miles consulted his pocket watch. “We’d better be off to Tattersalls, or we’re going to miss the auction on that hunter you wanted me to look at.” At the change of subject, Baron Stanton’s face held an expression of relief that Miles found comical though he secretly sympathized. He was no lover of spouting on about his emotions, either.

Eleanor glanced around the courtyard at Tattersalls and noted the auction on heavy hunters had just finished. Her presence at the male bastion of horseflesh drew many disapproving eyes from the gentlemen, but she didn’t care. Her groom accompanied her, so propriety was satisfied. She was here on business—not some frivolous passing of time. Her money spent every bit as well as theirs.

The young breeding stock should be up next. Though she was not in the market for a hunter, a particularly prime specimen caught her eye, as did the two handsome men that remained to examine the bay gelding. She wandered over to secure a place in the front of the coming auction, her groom trailing at a discreet distance, and she couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Stanton, I’m sure he will be up to your weight and give you many years of good use.”

“You’re certain he is better than the chestnut, then? Miles, I had my heart set on that fellow.”

The other gentlemen chuckled and shook his head. “Reg, the chestnut is a flash horse with his blond mane and tail and those four white stockings, but his legs lack the necessary bone for a hunter carrying a man’s weight. He might make a hack for Mary.  I promise you…” He leaned over and gave the solid bay horse a fond pat. “This sweet goer will serve you far better though he be dressed in plain clothing. He won’t leave you riding shanks mare home from the hunting field.”

Eleanor eyed the “plainly dressed” horse in question and thought him not plain at all. While it was true his coloration was of the most common, the animal’s build was anything but. He was an example of the best of breeding to purpose. His sturdy, straight, unblemished legs guaranteed whoever rode him out in the morning to hunt would not trudge home on foot in the evening, leading a lame horse.  She thought ‘Stanton’ had received excellent advice, and she watched as a stable boy appeared and led the gelding away. The two men lingered, and she thoughtfully studied what she could see of them. There was something familiar about the taller man, but without a better look, it was difficult to say who he was.

“What do you think, Miles? Shall we stay and see what breeding stock is up next? I wouldn’t mind something to send down to the home farm to breed to that old stud Lord Exeter is standing.”

“I’m at your disposal, sir. My time is your time.”

The elegantly attired gentleman addressed as ‘Miles’ turned slightly and glanced at her. When she made eye contact with him and nodded, he gave her a quizzical look before a pleasant smile crossed his outrageously handsome face, and he tipped his hat politely. He turned to his friend and must have said something, for the man he was with raised his head and glanced at her, but dismissed her. It was a reaction she was all too familiar with. She was mature, not a beauty and far too tall to appeal to a gentleman’s eye. Eleanor drew back, ducking behind another patron. While it was obvious the taller gentleman did not remember her, she did recognize him. Lord Miles Everleigh. There were not many men of his height nor breadth of shoulder. Indeed, nature had not scrimped anywhere on Lord Miles. Even she, with her utter disdain for the male sex, had no difficulty whatsoever recalling every detail surrounding her first glimpse of the man.

A conversation of many months ago with a dear childhood friend, now a dashing widow of independent means, came to mind, and color rose in Eleanor’s cheeks. Normally she’d find the hours spent selecting and buying a young broodmare a delightful occupation that would consume all her attention, but with the burning issue of finding a suitable marital candidate and the image of the striking Lord Everleigh fresh in her mind, perhaps reconnecting with her old friend was a more… profitable… way to spend her time.

“Eleanor, what a delightful surprise! I had no idea you were in London.” The Honorable Lady Florence Lloyd-Smythe entered the elegant parlor of her London residence in a waft of attar of rose and a swish of fine linen and lace.

Eleanor placed her teacup on the saucer in her lap then set both on a low table and rose to meet her friend. “Florence, I’ve missed you terribly.”

“That’s your fault, dearest. I’ve asked you to town often enough.” The young widow wrapped Eleanor in a brief hug before she stepped back and motioned to the love seat. “Please sit. We have so much to catch up on.” She sank down beside Eleanor. “Oh, fabulous, Cook sent up tea and some of her biscuits and lemon cakes.” Florence laughed and patted her stomach. “I must restrict myself to bread and water one of these days, or I won’t fit into my new gowns.” She grinned at Eleanor and helped herself to a liberal portion of the treats.

Eleanor eyed her with poorly concealed annoyance. “Florence, you look as beautiful as ever. I wish I had some of your curves.”

Florence brought her teacup to her lips and sipped as she examined Eleanor from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. “Dear girl, there isn’t a thing in the world wrong with you that a good modiste and mantilla maker couldn’t cure. You must let me dress you. But I won’t belabor the issue. You’ve heard all my lectures.” She smiled. “What brings you to town?” Florence put her teacup and saucer on her lap, her face suddenly serious. “Is it your father?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No, thankfully, not yet… but it is something to do with him, yes.” She placed her tea on the low table and fiddled with her gloves. “You remember I told you about the issue with the inheritance?”

“Yes. Last I knew, you and your family’s solicitors were beating the bushes for any sort of male relation, no matter how tenuous.” She frowned. “I take it you had no success?”

Eleanor slumped and shook her head. “None whatsoever.”

“Oh…that’s very bad.” Florence put her tea on the table and reached for one of Eleanor’s hands. “My dear…the Crown will take everything?”

Eleanor nodded miserably. “All but the properties in freehold. I should have to rebuild from the ground up. It will almost certainly mean the selling of many of my horses.”

“And there is nothing you can do?”

Eleanor raised her gaze to Florence and held the woman’s brown eyes steadily. “I was at point non plus, Flo… I instructed my solicitor to produce a list of marital candidates.”

“You are going to get married?”

“Yes. Somewhat married. Temporarily, that is. Well, the marriage will be permanent, just not the husband.”

“What?” Florence pulled her hand back and straightened. “You are going to marry and then get rid of your new groom? Eleanor! I believe there are laws that prohibit that sort of thing—much as one might wish there weren’t.” Florence tapped her upper lip thoughtfully. “Well… I suppose if you didn’t get caught.”

Eleanor snorted and rolled her eyes. “Not get rid of him as in killing him. Just… send him on his way with £30,000 cash and a generous annuity that is dependent upon his never interfering with my administration of Rutledge. Elsington has a petition drawn up to ask Parliament to allow my first-born male child to inherit the entail. He feels there is an excellent chance the House of Lords will grant it as my father is highly placed, well respected, and his unfortunate circumstances viewed with sympathy.” Eleanor squirmed in her seat and examined her shoes. “I know it sounds very disreputable, but my barrister assures me that all the loose ends are tied up in a contract that is unassailable and completely legal. I just need someone desperate enough to sign such a machination… a someone who is acceptable to me. The marriage will be announced publically, and I must have cooperation from Father as the petition is in his name…” Eleanor cleared her throat and shifted on the sofa, “…so it must not be a hideous mésalliance.”

“To risk all on a decision from the House of Lords, my dear? Is that the best solution available?”

“Finding an accommodating male to be my husband and getting an ‘Act of Lords’ is my only solution, Florence.” Eleanor held back from her friend the disclosure of an additional codicil to the marriage agreement that restrained said husband from setting foot on the Rutledge estate unless requested. She also didn’t share with Lady Florence that she had decided, over the heated objections of Penwick Elsington, this marriage would be in name only. After the debacle of her coming out many years ago, she couldn’t face justifying her present actions to her dearest friend. She didn’t have the courage to explain, for it would mean dragging out all those old and profoundly deep hurts and confessing them to Florence. If successful, her current actions would secure Rutledge for her lifetime. That had to be enough.

“And have you broached the subject of such a petition with the Earl?”

Eleanor studied the fleur-de-lis on the wallpaper and wondered at Florence’s bravery in decorating with something so French when England was engaged in full-scale war with Napoleon. “When did you put up new wall coverings?”

“They aren’t new. You just never noticed before. Don’t change the subject, Eleanor.”

Eleanor sighed. “Years ago, Father and I discussed such a possibility at some length, but that was before I told him I didn’t have the heart to endure another season. He never mentioned it again. I think he and Mother have accepted that I will never marry; the family line will end, and Rutledge will revert to the Crown. I hope my marriage will come as welcome news.” Picking up her teacup, she sipped slowly, aware that Florence observed her keenly. “I just need to find a husband for hire…so to speak.”

“And have you? Found someone?”

Eleanor’s stomach flipped over, and she wished she hadn’t had that second piece of lemon cake. “Ah… well… the thing is yes, yes, I’ve found someone.” She swallowed heavily. “I think.”

Florence leaned back with a delighted laugh. “Do I know him? Is he well-favored?”

“Oh… Florence.” Eleanor slumped further into the sofa and hunched over, supporting her forehead on her hand. “Tell me, did you ever further your acquaintance with Lord Miles Everleigh? I recall you had expressed a desire to do so at one time.”

“Lord Miles—? You are considering Lord Miles Everleigh as the potential father for your heir?” Her friend abruptly went silent then her soft chuckle filled the parlor. “Oh, my very dear, Eleanor, I am definitely taking you to a new modiste.”

Eleanor simply moaned.

“Lord Miles.” Lady Florence savored his name as if it were a delicious confection. “I cannot strike from memory that day in Hyde Park when you asked about his horse of all things.” She shook her head, her eyes alight with bemusement. “Trust only you, Eleanor, to see the prime ‘un with four legs while ignoring the one with two.” Florence shook herself as if to expunge her perplexity. “I never furthered my acquaintance with him to the extent I had hoped, however, I’ll tell you what I do know.” Her chin lowered, and her gaze rested on Eleanor in counterfeit sobriety. “Lord Miles Everleigh is the younger brother to His Grace the Duke of Chelsony. It’s a pity about Lord Miles. He’s exceedingly handsome, very prettily behaved even if a bit of a rake, and a darling of the Haut Monde. Lord Miles has entrée to the most exclusive establishments; he is received everywhere. On the other hand, His Grace the Duke is generally disliked as being far too high in the instep and a hard-nosed skinflint.”

“If Lord Miles is well-behaved, why do you say a rake, Florence?”

The widow flashed Eleanor a mischievous glance. “Immediately upon graduating Oxford, he entered into the tender care of a very ‘fast’ widow, Lady Margaret Dorchance, and only left her address when she departed for the continent, whereupon he became the live-in ‘guest’ of The Right Honorable Lady Olivia Norwalk. She let it be widely known that Lord Miles was a singularly delightful houseguest.” Florence wiggled her eyebrows. “It seemed, unlike Lady Olivia’s deceased husband, the young Lord Miles delighted her well and often.” Florence cast Eleanor an arch smile. “She said he was indefatigable.”

Eleanor’s brain flew in fifty directions. Mental images of how Lord Miles might possibly ‘delight’ Lady Olivia Norwalk—all of them necessarily vague—flooded her mind, and whatever did Florence mean by “indefatigable”? Embarrassment tied her tongue. She searched for some response that wouldn’t reveal her abysmal naiveté.

It truly wasn’t fair. Widows and wives had such an advantage. They had entrée into an entire world of experience of which she remained ignorant. Not even her forays into the breeding shed, from which she’d been expelled with humiliating regularity, had offered much insight other than the bald mechanics of “the act.” How that could be deemed delightful piqued her curiosity mightily.

With a low, affectionate chuckle, her friend took pity on her and continued, “Since then, he’s not lacked for open-ended invitations of which he has taken full advantage. Lord Miles stays in his hostesses’ good graces by being the best of houseguests—one who knows how to please and when to discreetly depart. There’s even a standing bet at White’s as to which aristocratic widow or bored noble wife will support him when he leaves his current address. At the moment. I believe he is residing with an old school chum, Baron Stanton.”

Eleanor eyed her friend with a frown. “Doesn’t he have a living of his own? You would think…”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Chelsony is not an impoverished title. However, I suppose with three younger brothers…” Florence shrugged. “As I said, the new Duke of Chelsony is notoriously tightfisted. He’s left his two youngest brothers, Lord Miles and Lord Edmund, to live on their wits and the pittance that trickles from his abundant purse. I believe the second brother, Lord Duncan, purchased an officer’s commission in the army while the old Duke was still alive.

“You and Lord Miles share a common interest. It’s said that he’s keen on racing and is quite the authority on Thoroughbred bloodlines. His name was proposed for admittance into the Jockey Club but, alas, he lacks the income to support his passion. So, he uses his expert knowledge to the benefit of his friends. Should I arrange an introduction for you?”

“No. It’s not necessary.” Eleanor rose and kissed her good friend on the cheek. “I must take my leave of you. You are the best of friends, Florence. For better or worse, I’ve made a decision, and I must see Mr. Elsington, immediately.”

Lady Florence rose and ushered Eleanor to the door. “Regardless of what you have decided, I’m calling on you first thing in the morning to attend to your wardrobe.”

Eleanor winced. “Do you really—”

“Expect my carriage at 10:00.” Lady Florence gently pushed Eleanor through the front door and closed it firmly behind her, cutting off any more protest.

“Miles, after dinner, I intend to look up Lord John Hadley and Mister Jules Smart at the club. Any interest in joining me for a reconnoiter and a few hands of whist?” Baron Stanton cast Miles a look of inquiry.

“It would be my pleasure, as long as you are kind to my pocketbook,” he laughed in reply.

“We will keep the wagering low. I’m determined not to let you get the best of me this time.”

Once there, they met up with the two gentlemen known to Miles and Reggie, who agreed to settle into a friendly game of cards at a penny a point. The foursome had been playing for several hours when Reggie commented, “Say, Miles, isn’t that your brother, Lord Edmund?” Reggie examined the last card in his hand, scowled and tossed it onto the table. “Your trick, book, and game. Your skill is uncanny,” Reggie grumbled. “You win far too often.”

Miles smiled and nodded at the pleasant gentleman sitting across from him. “I have an adept partner.”

He shot a glance in the direction Reggie had indicated and frowned. Indeed, Ned stood at a dicing board among a group of men, of whom one was well-known to Miles as a thorough scoundrel and card sharp. Miles suppressed a sense of helpless unease. The ill-advised actions of his younger brother featured prominently among the many things over which he had no control.

His attention returned to his partner. “Well played, Lord John. When you ran the trump and returned my opening, you set up my minor suit nicely.” He picked up the cards, squared the deck and placed it in the middle of the table. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I have an early appointment tomorrow with a certain four-legged arrival. I leave you in the tender clutches of Baron Stanton.” He directed a crooked smile at Reggie. “Don’t be too cruel.”

Reggie slid his chair back and groaned. “I’m coming with you. I promised Mary I’d be early tonight.”

The other two gentlemen hooted, and there was much teasing about being tied to apron strings and leg-shackled which the baron took with good grace.

“Just you wait, you hooligans. Your turn will come.” As they stopped in the foyer and summoned a footman to gather their greatcoats, gloves, hats and walking sticks, Reggie lowered his voice, “Did you see who Lord Edmund was gambling with? That man has a reputation as a Captain Sharp, and the on-dit is he runs a gang of murderers and thieves. I would warn your brother off at the first opportunity.”

“Yes. I’m only too aware. I have already spoken to Ned on several occasions about the unsavory company he keeps and advised him to seek other associates.” Miles looked at Reggie as they walked out of the club and flagged a cab. “He’s twenty-one. Remember yourself at that age? I can’t tell him anything. I’m afraid he’s already in the clutches of the cent-per-centers, but he keeps reassuring me that he’ll come about.”

“What are you going to do?”

Mile’s face tightened, and his full mouth became a thin line. “As with everything else in my life, there is damn little I can do but watch as the ship breaks apart on the rocks and then show up the next day to salvage the wreckage.”

The second-floor chamber maid drew back the curtains to let in the morning sun and lit the coal fire that had been laid in the hearth the evening before. “Morning, my lord. I’ve left hot water for you on the dressing table and placed your clean linen in the wardrobe. Your morning coffee will be up shortly, and breakfast will be in the small dining room at 10:30.” She dropped Miles a brief curtsey and left the room.

Mile scrubbed at his eyes and shoved himself into a sitting position in the luxurious bed of the well-appointed guest chamber in Baron Stanton’s London townhome—a bed in which he was the sole occupant, thank heaven. Due to Reggie’s kind invitation, he’d had a hiatus from the nocturnal activities that accompanied that of being a kept man. Not that he held the lovely ladies who had sheltered him in dislike… nothing could be further from the truth—delicious bits of femininity all of them, and he was very grateful. It was just rather hard on a man’s ego to forge an existence based solely on being an agreeable companion with skill in the bedroom arts. He hoped he had more substantial talents.

As an aristocrat, working in any profession but law or the Church would result in social ostracism. He would not be received anywhere. He found the law excruciatingly dull and was by temperament, entirely unsuited for the clergy. As long as his half-brother held the purse strings in a stranglehold, his only option was to surrender his independence and live at the ducal residence under his brother’s thumb, or offer his services as “gentleman friend, escort and companion at large” in exchange for room and board—very hard on a man with any pride, a character trait he’d discovered he had in excess. 

He sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His Grace was forever berating him as a ciscisbeo, a Casanova, a man-whore… but then, his half-brother, the Duke, had the solution within his grasp. As Miles reminded him on occasion, all he need do was stake Miles to a small farm and a few well-chosen broodmares, and Miles would change his living circumstances forthwith. In furtherance of provoking His Grace to that end, Miles made no effort to curtail his notorious exploits with the fairer sex.

He viewed Reggie’s invitation as a temporary reprieve. Ah well, time to face another day of being a useful houseguest. He brightened. Reggie’s new hunter would arrive today. They could have a ride in the park and test the horse’s paces. He rang the bell to summon the young footman who was doing double duty as his valet. Appearance was vital when it was your calling card.

Washed, shaved and dressed impeccably, he sauntered into the small dining room.

Reggie’s wife Mary, the sole occupant, looked up from the remains of her breakfast and smiled. “Good morning, Lord Miles. You’re looking very dashing, as usual. Stanton has gone to the stables to see after his latest purchase. He said he’d wait for you there as you’d no doubt want to try him out first thing.” She waved at the buffet laid on a nearby sideboard. “Please make yourself free with whatever is left.”

He chuckled as he placed some toast, slices of cheese and ham on his plate and crossed to his usual chair. “Yes, I’d intended to go straight to the stables, but I’m reluctant to rush off when I’ve such beautiful and charming company.”

“Flatterer.” She cast him a laughing glance. “You can make up the loss of your cordial presence by accompanying me on my shopping excursion this afternoon. I’m to have some new riding habits made up, and as you’re fast friends with the always smartly attired Lady Norwalk, you can give me an educated male opinion.” She frowned slightly. “Stanton complains I’m too staid.” She raised her hot chocolate to her mouth and took a small sip. “Oh, and something’s come for you in the post.”

A thick white packet sat on the table by his usual setting. “Hmm…it’s from a barrister.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine.” Putting it aside to read later, he faced Mary with a smile and all evidence of genuine interest. “Now, tell me, what dressmaker will have your patronage, and what styles are you contemplating?”

Thankfully, Mary wasn’t one of those women who rattled on about fripperies until a man’s head whirled, and it wasn’t too long until he was the sole occupant of the dining room.

He eyed the thick white packet, strongly tempted to ignore it. In his experience, legal professionals rarely sent good news. But there was nothing to be gained by putting off the inevitable. If by some chance he was being sued for say, alienation of affection or worse, paternity—always a possibility though he’d been careful—the sooner known, the sooner dealt with. He opened the envelope, smoothed the thick folded sheets flat on the table and began reading as he swallowed his coffee.  He stopped mid-sip, his cup suspended in mid-air. A frown developed between his brows, and when he left the table an hour later, his destination was not the stables.